The Innkeeper's Daughters
by Poiniard
Summary: The tale of three sisters who set out for adventure, only to learn there is much the bards leave out.
1. Prologue: Maskyr the Archmage

Author's Note and Standard Disclaimer: This work of fan-fiction is a tribute to the Forgotten Realms, its creator and its fans. Certain settings and characters appearing in this story are © WotC. They are used without permission and for entertainment purposes only. Some of the characters are "canon" while others are my own. For those unfamiliar with the Forgotten Realms, Maskyr's Eye is a tiny village between Calaunt and Mulmaster. All reviews are welcome.  
  
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PROLOGUE: MASKYR THE ARCHMAGE  
  
The Kingdom of Thar, 02 Marpenoth, DR 1294, the Year of the Deep Moon  
  
The Magister Inhil Lauthdryn strode into the throne room. He had come a long way. There on the dais waited the young prince and his advisor, the archmage Maskyr.  
  
"Maskyr," asked the prince, "perhaps I should leave you two alone?"  
  
"Nay, my prince," said the archmage. "It is best that you remain. I have taught you how to win a kingdom, now I must teach you how to keep it. You must learn how to deal with powerful emissaries such as this." The boy nodded, then sat down in a chair to one side. Maskyr turned toward their visitor and bowed. "Magister Inhil Lauthdryn, I bid you welcome. Welcome to Thar."  
  
"Two-hundred and fifty winters are now gone since you and I last spoke," said the Magister with a warm smile. He came forward, and the two wizards clasped hands firmly. For that brief moment, each stared into the eyes of the other. "That was in the Dalelands, in the court of Aencar the Mantled King. The last I heard, you were in Calaunt."  
  
Maskyr frowned. "The cowardly dukes sent me into exile thirty years ago," he said. "They traded their pride and freedom for a brief span of peace and a few coppers. Did you come here to remind me of my own failures, Inhil?"  
  
"I am sorry, Maskyr," replied the Magister. "I did not mean to belittle your accomplishments here." He glanced over at the boy. "Nor the prince's," he added. "The last Tharkul is dead and the beast-men are finally defeated. Now there is a human king in Thar, and the Grey Lands have become great and free. You have done well."  
  
"I have regained much that was lost." Maskyr went over to the balcony and threw open the great crystalline doors. Beyond lay the rolling hills of Thar, covered in heather, a land now at peace. "What you see is but the start of a lasting realm." The archmage turned to his young prince. "Your ancestor was Aencar, the Mantled King of the Dales. Your great- grandchildren will rule all the Moonsea. The lands of their descendants will encompass all the fair lands of the Dragon Reach, to east and west." He turned back to face their guest, and offered him a chair opposite the prince. "Humans shall once again take their rightful place in the Realms."  
  
"That is, in part, why I have come," said Inhil, taking his seat. "The heirs of Mulm the Great stand in your way."  
  
"Tyrants and usurpers," answered Maskyr, dismissing the thought with a wave of his hand. "Soon I will bring them to their knees, and bring hope again to the kindly folk of the Moonsea."  
  
"Mulmaster is a powerful city. How do you hope to accomplish this?" The Magister eyed him cautiously.  
  
"Soon," answered Maskyr, "a storm will arise such as has never before been seen in the North. The thunder will shake the mountains to their very roots, and the seas will rise in anger to whelm those who defile our lands."  
  
"Mulmaster is your enemy, though it lies on a distant shore. You speak of floods and angry seas," said Inhil. His eyes narrowed, and he lowered his voice. "I know you have been seeking Rucien Xan, my lord Maskyr. I know what it is that you seek."  
  
"Seek?" The one-eyed archmage laughed. "Say not seek, my good Magister, say found!"  
  
"You have been to Rucien Xan?"  
  
"Yes, and to the hidden temple of the White Worm, and to other places besides."  
  
The Magister's eyes widened. "Then you have learned the Spell of Whelming?"  
  
"I have indeed," said Maskyr.  
  
The Magister sighed, and was silent for a moment, clutching the symbol of Azuth, Lord of Wizards, that he wore about his neck. "Then my visions were true, just as I feared," he said. Inhil looked up at the other archmage. "You are a powerful wizard, Maskyr, perhaps even my own equal. But even I would not dare to cast that perilous spell. Surely you must know what will befall. Since the elves destroyed Jhaamdath long ago, that spell has been forbidden by Azuth."  
  
"The elves reaped more than they had sown when they brought about the destruction of Jhammdath."  
  
"You must not do this, Maskyr," warned the Magister. "Beware! The Spell of Whelming was hidden by the elves for a reason. You would risk flooding all the Moonsea? It could spell the deaths of thousands."  
  
"I will not stand idle again while a good kingdom falls, Inhil." Maskyr said. "Did you learn nothing when we served Aencar? Even now, the forces of Mulmaster marshal against us. I am the court mage now, and I will not fail my monarch again."  
  
The young prince suddenly spoke. "All this he does at my bidding, my lord Magister," he said. He looked up at Maskyr. "The king who cannot hold his own is not a king, is that not what you said?" The one-eyed archmage smiled, as proud as if it were his own son who spoke the words. Inhil Lauthdryn was suddenly very afraid. 


	2. Chapter 1: It Was a Good Inn

CHAPTER ONE: IT WAS A GOOD INN  
  
Maskyr's Eye, the Vast, 14 Flamerule, DR 1361, the Year of Maidens  
  
The two riders halted at the southern edge of the vale. Beside them, a lone standing stone rose up at an odd angle above the rubble wall of an old farm like a stern, endlessly pointing finger.  
  
"This marks the edge of Maskyr's Eye," said the dark-haired rider, indicating the stone. The village of Maskyr's Eye was before them in the narrow vale formed by mountains to the east, tall hills to the south, and the line of a dark, brooding forest to the north and west. All the vale between the mountains and the forest was visible from their vantage point on the road. They could see perhaps a dozen farms or pastures, all neatly marked by straight boundaries of stone fences.  
  
"Are those dwarven writings on the stone?" asked his companion, mildly interested. It was a warm, midsummer afternoon, getting on towards evening. The air was humid, and dark clouds had been coming up from the south all afternoon. They could hear thunder in the distance.  
  
"Aye, Lord. The locals call it the Dwarfstone, although some ballads refer to it as Durn's Finger." To the locals, the stone was more than just a marker, it was something sacred to the dwarves, not to be disturbed or even approached too closely. In recent memory, no dwarf had ever appeared to reveal any use or reverence for the stone, but the legend remained, clear and emphatic, and the stone remained undisturbed.  
  
The dark-haired rider turned and looked back the way they had come. To the south stood a great rocky hill, so steep and rocky on its northeastern face that it seemed almost a cliff. Though not nearly so tall as the distant mountains to the east, this great bluff loomed over the entire vale like the prow of some giant ship. A single large farm, its borders neatly marked with a low, straight fence of placed rocks, huddled nearby, at the foot of the bluff between the hill and the road. Their road wound around the base of the bluff before turning away southward. He noticed a narrow path climbing the bluff on the eastern side, where the hill was not so steep.  
  
The other rider, a young nobleman, looked to the east, and saw farms stretching away from the road. The land rose steeply to meet the mountains in the distance. The plots were narrow and long, and many had vineyards planted on the rocky slopes at the eastern side of the vale. Beyond loomed four tall mountain peaks. To the left, the two northernmost of the visible mountains of the Giantspike range, stood the twin Coldstars- high, blue and grey, looking nearly identical, with few trees on their slopes. To the right was Mount Wolf, the squattest and broadest of the peaks which formed the eastern edge of the vale. It was almost entirely covered with trees, and its top was flattened with only the barest tinge of snow. Between the Coldstars and Mount Wolf he beheld the greatest peak of all, Mount Aergurl, which in old folktales was called The Sleeper in the Sunrise.  
  
Three cold, narrow streams rushed down the rocky side coming out of the dark trees which grew halfway up this snow-capped mountain. These streams ran down from the mountains to the east, and flowed into a small pond in the center of the village. North and south of the pond were two grass- covered levies, redirecting the mountain streams into the pond and away from the road. From the west side of the pond, a single creek wound its way westward through horse pastures before disappearing into the forest.  
  
"At least we will make the inn before it rains," said the younger man.  
  
"For once," grinned the dark-haired rider.  
  
They spurred their horses, and followed the road northward through the middle of the vale. They crossed the stream by means of a broad wooden bridge which marked roughly the center of the vale. There perhaps a dozen thatch-roofed buildings clustered around a small dirt square, near the pond and the bridge. Close at hand stood the old pillories, which looked as if they've not been used in years.  
  
At the south end of the pond was a large building, a blacksmiths shop from the sounds of clanging metal and the smoke billowing from the chimney. Next to the smithy where one of the mountain streams ran into the pond stood a largish building with a waterwheel and a low grain silo. Next to this, they saw a slightly larger building of wood and stone construction, with a high peaked roof with slate shingles. Gilded double doors at the front marked this as a temple of some sort.  
  
They made their way east of the square, around the northwestern curve of the pond, toward a large, low, sprawling building of stone and wood, with a thatched roof. A walled compound off to one side enclosed what looked to be a stable, and a rather large oak tree. This building was undoubtedly the inn, called the Wizard's Hand, a place reknowned throughout the Vast for its good food and comfortable lodgings.  
  
***  
  
It was a good inn. A large, broad-shouldered man with dark hair approached them with a smile. He wore a stained leather apron over a sleeveless tunic and trousers. He looked the two travellers up and down, wiping his hands on a kerchief. With perhaps a little suspicion he noticed the longswords at their sides.  
  
"Hail and well met, travellers," he said, smiling broadly. "You must be here for the Hornmoot. I am Lhullbanen Orlsyr, proprietor of the Wizard's Hand, finest inn of all the Vast. Here you may rest and eat and drink your fill. Are there but the two of you, and how long will you be staying?"  
  
"Greetings, good innkeeper," said the younger man, bowing politely. "I am Aendar, and my companion is Drannamon." He did not volunteer their titles or their surnames. "We have travelled far today on a hard road, and would count ourselves lucky if you could find room for us for the night. We have heard tell of the Wizard's Hand, but alas we have a longer road tomorrow, and must leave at first light."  
  
"Well spoken and well met," said Lhullbannen, returning Aendar's bow. The innkeeper sensed an air of nobility about the younger man, though the dark- haired one looked a bit rough. Over the years, he had developed an eye for sizing up travellers who came to stay at his inn, and these two looked like they could afford a night's stay. The proprietor formed a good many other opinions about them, as well, but Lhullbannen Orlsyr did not generally share his opinions. "Not here for the Hornmoot, then? Just as well, for it may be delayed this year."  
  
Aendar had no idea what was meant by the Hornmoot. He raised an eyebrow questioningly at Drannamon, who shrugged.  
  
"Do you have horses in need of stabling?" asked the innkeeper. "If so, there is room at the back. If not, know that Maskyr's Eye is reknowned for its horses, and if you are ever in need of one, you will find your money's worth here in the Vale, that's for sure. We've raised horses here for as long as the village has stood."  
  
The two friends both smiled at the innkeeper. "We have two horses," said Aendar.  
  
"Well, you've heard enough of my chatter," said Lhullbannen. "You must be tired and thirsty from the road, so I will be off. Make yourselves at home under my roof. I'll send one of my daughters around to bring you a meal and a drink. Just let me get the groom to help you." The innkeeper turned and made for the door to the kitchens, bellowing "Bunker!!"  
  
In answer to the summons, a dwarf scuttled in through a side door. He shuffled with a pronounced limp, but moved quickly despite his lameness. He was stooping and unattractive-looking, with crooked yellow teeth, a tangled beard, and a patch over one eye. On his head was a large, shapeless blue hat. Muttering under his breath, he bobbed up and down nervously, and smiled and bowed profusely many times. Aendar and Drannamon were finally able to make out that this was Bunker, the groom, and he was to lead them to their room.  
  
Once their belongings and lodgings had been arranged, and their horses taken to the stables and cared for, Bunker led Aendar and Drannamon back to the common room in search of an empty table. The room was already crowded.  
  
In one corner sat two older men who looked as if they spent a great deal of their time in the taproom. Their conversation was loud enough for the two travellers to overhear. One of them expressed his concern that the expected horns of the Stout Folk had not yet been heard. "Not to worry," said the other. "Graer Dunfallow will just give a toot of that old horn of his, and the dwarves will answer sure enough, just as they have in the past."  
  
On a bench by the fireplace, a yellow-haired woman in dyed robes of brown and green with a yellow sash was sitting quietly. On her lap was an open book; a tea cup sat beside her on the hearth. She was pointedly trying to ignore an enthusiastic young man who had seated himself next to her on a stool.  
  
They passed many tables, where men were talking. "The Stout Folk will be selling fine dwarven axes at the next Hornmoot," said one. "Bandits on the North Road attacked a caravan coming from Mulmaster just last tenday," said another. "Wolves a' been comin' down out of the mountains in greater numbers than usual this year," said another. "Ulcrimmon Alskayl told me he was up on Mount Aergurl and got chased off by a whole pack of wolves. Ain't a wolf been seen on the Sleeper in living memory."  
  
Bunker finally led them towards an empty table. Before they were able to seat themselves, a little girl approached them. She tugged on Drannamon's weathered cloak. The girl had short-cropped dark hair and dark eyes. Bunker smiled at the little girl and bounced up and down, clapping his hands. She smiled at the dwarf, and at them. "My name is Jhesycha," she says, "What's yours?"  
  
Before either traveller could answer the lass, a huge, noisy woman with a red face burst in from the kitchens. She had a wicked looking broom in her hand. She glared at the two new guests.  
  
"Are you two planning to eat anything," she demanded, "or do you intend simply to stand on my clean floors attracting flies and discouraging paying customers?" They managed to stammer out that they would very much like a meal and a drink. Then she yelled an almost unintelligible string of orders and epithets at the poor dwarf, sending him scurrying off back where he came from. The large woman sent a disapproving glare at two older men in the corner, making no attempt to hide her disdain, before shooshing the little girl back into the kitchen with her broom. Aendar and Drannamon could only blink, but quickly sat down.  
  
From his place by the fire, the enthusiastic-looking young man rose and approached the two newcomers with a smile on his face. He had boyish looks, with big ears and bright eyes. He was colorfully dressed in a cloak of bright crimson and a green tunic worn over a chain shirt, with yellow leggings tucked into a large pair of brown boots. He had a lute slung over one shoulder and a crossbow across over his back. At his hip hung a short sword in a shiny new scabbard. He carried a large mug in his hand. Aendar grinned, but Drannamon scowled.  
  
"Ah, I see you have met Maefi," the man said, seating himself. He referred to the loud woman with the broom who had come from the kitchens. "Don't let her bother you, she's like that with everyone. She is Lhull's wife, may Ilmater bless him with perseverence. No doubt you've already met Lhullbannen Orlsyr, owner and innkeeper of the Wizard's Hand. A good man, he is." He leaned forward, and lowered his voice. "Rumor has it," he added conspiratorily, "that Lhullbannen led an adventurer's life in his youth, before he met his wife." He nodded and took a drink.  
  
"That dwarf you met was Bunker," he continued. "The only one of the Stout Folk who truly lives here in Maskyr's Eye. Bunker mostly runs the stables, and sometimes carries baggage for Lhullbannen. He is generally quiet and keeps to himself. The Orlsyrs treat him with kindness, except for Maefi, who treats no one with kindness. And the girl was their youngest, Jhesycha. They have four daughters to help them running the inn. The other girls are Carine, Andryl and Shalea. They're all around here somewhere." Again, he leaned forward and lowered his voice. "His daughters are the prizes of the hamlet, dark-haired spitfires every one, but no one has caught one of 'em yet, for fear of old Lhull." He gave a wink. "Course, there's a bit too much of the tomboy in them Orlsyr sisters for me, else I'd surely have wooed them all myself by now."  
  
"Who exactly ARE you?" asked Aendar.  
  
The young man seemed to remember his manners, and stood in order to properly introduce himself. "Greetings, fellow travellers," he said. "I am Pinter Plen of Ylraphon, wandering minstrel and teller-of-tales." He bowed theatrically, with a fluorish of his cloak, somehow managing not to spill a drop from his mug, and barely managing to keep his sword from falling out of its scabbard and clattering to the floor. Sensing he still had an audience, or perhaps sensing nothing, Pinter seated himself again at their table and proceeded to inform the two travellers of everything he knew about the locals who frequented the Wizard's Hand.  
  
"Now, those two," he said, gesturing toward the two old men in the corner, "Are Hulthoon Maer, an old woodsman and Arbrest Thunwyllun, an old farmer. They are regular fixtures here at the Wizard's Hand, near as I can tell. When they are drunk, which is often, they are arguing loudly. When they are not drunk, which is seldom, they are gossipping. Now, where be you from, eh? Tantras, mayhaps?"  
  
"No, we are not from Tantras," answered Aendar.  
  
"Just as well. Tantras is a god-ridden place of suspicious, unfriendly folk." When no further clarifications seemed immediately forthcoming from either Drannamon or Aendar, the minstrel went on with his disertations.  
  
"That man over there is Aarrison Urlefil, the closest thing Maskyr's Eye has to a guardsman. He and Lhullbannen have gotten to be rather good friends over the years, as both were fighting men at one time. He once told me he served a brief stint as a mercenary in Calaunt. Calaunt is a den of thieves, an openly evil place dominated by arrogant idiots. Or so I've heard."  
  
Aendar shook his head.  
  
"Not from Calaunt, either, then," Pinter said. "Mulmaster, perhaps? Mulmaster is a dangerous, sinister place, but they have the fiercest warriors. Maskyr's Bluff was once used as a look-out by soldiers from Mulmaster, you know."  
  
Drannamon rolled his eyes at Aendar.  
  
"And the quiet lady by the fire," Pinter went on. "That is Jhenta Sulpir. She is an acolyte at the temple of Chauntea. She's lived here in Maskyr's Eye for many years, and she's not once accepted my offer to buy her a glass of sherry. Strange, considering I'm certain she's smitten with me."  
  
Aendar gave the young minstrel a questioning look.  
  
"Twas just yestereve," he explained. "She asked me to accompany her upstairs. Jhenta and I snuck upstairs making sure that goodman Lhullbannen wasn't looking, along with Lhull's eldest, Carine. We went into his room." The bard grinned mischievously. "But it wasn't what you are thinking. The girls just wanted a look in his old chest. Well, I managed to jiggle the lock, and we all got a peek inside. There we found some heirlooms of her father's adventuring days- an old book and a magic sword. We barely got away undetected. That would have been it for me- he has ordered his daughters not to look into his things. Old Lhullbannen does not want his daughters to become adventurers, although I can't imagine why not."  
  
Aendar was desperately glad when one of Lhullbannen's daughters finally arrived with their meals. Unfortunately, she brought one for Pinter as well. Her face was plain, but might have been pretty. Her apron was dirty, but her homespun dress and hands were clean. She wore a pair of spectacles perched on her rather aquiline nose. Her hair was long and, like her father and sisters, dark.  
  
"Thank you, Carine," Pinter said. The bard flashed an innocent smile at the dark-haired girl, then set into his meal with both hands. Aendar thanked her as well, and she briefly curtsied before heading off.  
  
They dined well on roast stag eaten with beer, and wildsage vegetable stew, and hardbread with "bloodlick" gravy, and for dessert, she brought them sweet-tarts with bramble-berry jelly and a bowl of sugarbread soaked in brandy and covered with cream. Though the two travellers paid him little heed, Pinter spoke all through their meal. Drannamon said nothing, but finally Aendar asked of him one question. "What can you tell us about the Hornmoot?"  
  
"Twice or thrice a year," the young minstrel answered, "dwarves come down out of the mountains to trade with men in Maskyr's Eye. They stay only four days or so, long enough for word to get to Mulmaster, and for its traders to hurry south. The Stout Folk trade knives, daggers, axeheads, bracers, and short swords of fine make in return for food, wine, clothing, lamp oil, scents, wooden barrels, pitch, and rope. For a few days Maskyr's Eye is a crowded place and those unable to get rooms here at The Wizard's Hand either pay handsomely to stay at one of the farms in the vale, or camp by the roadside just north or south of the vale."  
  
"No doubt," he continued, "the innkeeper told you the Hornmoot will be late this year. It seems as if the dwarves are late in announcing their arrival for the Hornmoot. Typically, this is heralded by the blowing of horns from up in the mountains. The villagers are all a bit puzzled, and not overly concerned. In the past when the dwarves have been late, the Masyrvians simply sounded a horn of their own."  
  
"But there have been unsettling sightings of giants and signs of orcs up in the mountains this year. Even worse, there have been strange rumors of ghosts up in the mountains. Ghost stories usually come from the hill of Beluar's Hunt to the south, or from the Flooded Forest to the west, not from the Giantspike Mountains. Something is definitely stirring up trouble in the high country, folks tell me."  
  
***  
  
Carine Orlsyr returned to the kitchens after bringing the two newcomers and Pinter their meals. Her mother was not there. "Probably off bullying poor Bunker," she thought. But her sister Shalea was there, barefoot, scrubbing pots.  
  
"They don't look like merchants," she said, looking up. "Do you think they might be adventurers?"  
  
"Who, those two who just came in?" asked Carine. She shrugged. "They're both wearing swords, but that just means they're wealthy. They aren't much to look at, really." She sat down at the table and started chopping onions.  
  
"Well, I looked at 'em," said Shalea, going back to work with her scrub- brush. "The fair-haired one is handsome, don't you think?"  
  
Carine frowned at her younger sister. "He's twice your age, Shal."  
  
"Yes, but isn't he?" she persisted.  
  
"Well, perhaps," Carine admitted. "If he trimmed his hair and put on some clean clothes."  
  
***  
  
Lhullbannen went into the quiet courtyard behind the inn. He enjoyed coming here to watch the sun set, whenever chance allowed. He blinked when he noticed he was not alone. Leaning against the trunk of the great oak was a tall woman. She was slim, with long, golden hair that shone beneath the shade of the old tree. He blue eyes sparkled in the twilight. She was clad in tight-fitting black leathers, from foot to neck, and a sword hung at her hip, with gems in the hilt.  
  
"Sshansalue!" he cried aloud. He had not expected her. The woman turned to the innkeeper with a smile.  
  
"Hail and well met, Lhullbannen Orlsyr," she said. Her voice was like elven music, and her smile warmed the old innkeeper's heart. For a while, all thoughts of his cares were driven away. "You look surprised to see me." She laughed. "I told you I would return, did you think I was jesting?"  
  
"No," he answered. "I just did not expect you so soon. It is always a pleasure to see you again, though you remind me of other times which sometimes I would rather forget. What brings you here?"  
  
"There is evil stirring in your Vale, Lhullbannen," she said. The innkeeper's eyes widened at that, but he said nothing. "I have come to meet with another who Harps, Inven of the Dales. He has not yet arrived, has he?"  
  
Lhullbannen thought for a moment, then shook his head. "Nay, but I will look out for him. Shall I tell the guests you will be performing tonight? A song, perhaps?"  
  
The bardess smiled. "I would very much like to, if you will allow it."  
  
Lhullbannen chuckled. "If I will allow it? Why, it is ever a great honor to have the famous Wonderharp under my roof, to hear her songs. The Wizard's Hand will be packed tonight, I assure you."  
  
"Good," she said. "There is a new song I would like to try."  
  
"My lady," asked Lhullbannen, "I need to speak with you a moment."  
  
"About what?"  
  
"Last night, my daughters snuck into the attic and found my old gear locked in a trunk. I don't want my daughters going down that road."  
  
"Were our days together in the Broken Branch so bad?"  
  
"You and I both know what sort of people most adventurers are. I am trying to teach them to stay out of that lifestyle, but they don't always listen to their father. Especially Carine, my eldest. Perhaps you could speak to her?"  
  
"I would be glad to, my friend," she answered, smiling.  
  
The old innkeeper looked grateful. "I am pleased to hear it, my Lady," he said.  
  
***  
  
"Don't they all look just so handsome and romantic?" asked Shalea. She was crowded around the kitchen door with her two older sisters, looking out into the common room. A group of adventurers had just arrived at the inn.  
  
"Now what's happening, Shal? I can't see!" complained Andryl.  
  
"Well, if you'd stop pushing me, perhaps I could get a look," said Shalea. She peeked out into the common room. "Ooh, it's Pinter."  
  
"What's HE doing?" asked Andryl.  
  
"He's spouting some ballad he's written about them," answered Shalea.  
  
"That oaf. He's just trying to gain their favor," muttered Carine.  
  
"Hello, ladies." Startled by the unexpected voice behind them, the three girls nearly jumped. But it was neither their father nor their mother who had discovered their eavesdropping. It was Sshansalue, the exotic, leather- clad bardess who from time to time sang at the Wizard's Hand. The sisters all suddenly remembered there were chores to done. They muttered their greetings, and apologies, and hastily went off. Sshansalue set a hand on Carine's shoulder as she tried to go, instead leading her back into the kitchen. One glance from the tall woman sent the cook out the back door to gather herbs.  
  
"You know, I once thought even as you do," said Sshansalue.  
  
"You did?" asked Carine, a little surprised. The lady minstrel gave her a knowing smile.  
  
"Carine, allow me to give you a bit of advice," said Sshansalue. "Don't go into the business of adventuring."  
  
Carine sighed. "Lady, you sound just like my father."  
  
"Your father is a wise man." The Harper leaned against the edge of the table and shook her head. "Believe me, Carine, I know where your thoughts run." She gestured towards the door to the common room. "You see those adventurers out there, with their bright swords and pouches full of gold, flaunting society and your father's rules, living life on their own terms, listening to tales of themselves sung by little minstrels. Then you examine your own life, with its drudgery and boredom and hopelessness, and you would rather have theirs than yours."  
  
Carine crossed her arms stubbornly.  
  
"Let me give you a little lesson concerning the nature of adventurers. That bunch out there are the worst sort of adventurers- the ones who have had several successful expeditions, who suddenly have more wealth than they ever dreamed of, who delight in parading about in their shiny new gear, acting brave and pompous."  
  
"Is that so bad?" Carine asked.  
  
"Nay," Sshansalue replied, shaking her head. "But it is only the first side of the coin. Adventuring is about never having dry feet, never getting any sleep, never having nice clothes or a light pack, never having a soft pillow or a warm bed. One day, their luck will run out. It always does. They will see most of their friends die, be hounded by those who hate them and betrayed by those who envy them. They will learn to mistrust all those around them. They will leave their loved ones behind and never again have homes like you do now. They will all become scarred, and the scars that show are nowhere as bad as the ones that don't. Once you set out down that road, you may never be able to return. And even if you are lucky, and manage to survive, you will not be the same person you were when you left."  
  
Carine was silent for a moment. "Is that what happened to my father?" she asked.  
  
Sshansalue nodded her head. "He was lucky."  
  
*** 


	3. Chapter 2: The Innkeeper's Daughters

CHAPTER TWO: THE INNKEEPER'S DAUGHTERS  
  
Maskyr's Eye, the Vast, 15 Flamerule, DR 1361, the Year of Maidens  
  
"Do you really think we ought to be doing this?" asked Pinter.  
  
"Of course, boy" exclaimed Shalea, giving the bard an elbow in the ribs. She called him boy, but in truth, he was no younger than she. Shalea was bristling with excitement. "We're adventurers now, this is what we do."  
  
The boy peered skeptically over the edge. The trap door they'd found covered a stone-sided well which lead down, with neither rung nor handhold, into the darkness. Nearby stood the crumbling, empty ruins of an ancient tower. Shalea was kneeling beside it, peering intently into the shadows. Her older sisters, Carine and Andryl, stood behind her, also looking down. They did not seem quite so excited.  
  
"This is probably part of old Maskyr's tower," said Carine. She knew a bit more about sorcerers than either of her sisters, but not much. Everyone in Maskyr's Eye had heard the legends of the archmage who had given his name to their village and then disappeared. Carine had heard them often enough, as had her younger sisters, while working in their father's inn, the Wizard's Hand.  
  
"We all know that Maskyr is long gone," said Jhenta. She was an acolyte from the nearby temple to Chauntea, and was a friend of all the Orlsyr sisters, although especially Carine, to whom she was closest in age. Jhenta and Carine were almost inseparable- when their duties allowed. When Carine and her sisters had decided to go on this adventure, Jhenta found she could not pass up the chance. Her own life in the temple had grown as tedious as their lives in the inn.  
  
"And we all know the old legend," said Pinter, "the one about a curse falling on those who go nosing about in his ruins. Right, Bunker?" He turned to the old dwarf who was standing behind him, who only shrugged. Bunker, too, knew the tales, and many others besides. He didn't much care for nosing about in old ruins, but he had insisted on coming along to look after Carine and her sisters. Pinter looked to the other members of the company, hoping for some more support.  
  
"These ruins look to be old indeed," said Drannamon, the gruff-looking woodsman. He didn't seem too concerned, either. Drannamon looked over at his travelling companion, the paladin Aendar.  
  
"Old, but not evil, I don't think," said Aendar.  
  
The final member of the group strode to the edge of the hole and looked in over Shalea's slim shoulders. He was a handsome, mysterious bard named Inven Burlisk, the travelling minstrel whose tales had finally convinced them all to leave the Wizard's Hand. He put an arm around Pinter.  
  
"Cheer up lad," he said. "The lass is right. We're adventurers now, all of us. What would the tales say if we turned back now?" He grinned, but Pinter didn't look any more enthusiastic. "They would say, 'Poor Pinter and his brave companions, who missed their chance to be heroes,' if they mentioned us at all. Why, who knows what treasure we may find down this old well? Into the chasm leapt the fearless," he quoted. "What say you all? Do we turn aside, as young Pinter would have us, or do we brave the unknown, and trust in our wits, and our swords, and our Art (such as it is,) and perhaps a bit in Lady Luck? Such ways are true heroes made, 'tis said."  
  
Inven could be very persuasive when he put his mind to it. Aendar nodded his agreement, as did all of the others, except poor Pinter. They listened to Inven, in part, because he had already been on an adventure. They'd all listened to his tale the night before, in the common room of the Wizard's Hand, had even asked him to tell it again. His tales of adventure and daring had inspired them all, even though his own adventures amounted to little more than battling against wolves and brigands in the wild.  
  
"Well," murmured Pinter, "Since you put it that way."  
  
"Truly," said Aendar, "I can see little harm in just looking around." Drannamon agreed. Where his friend went, so would he.  
  
"I suppose so," said Carine. "A few hours delay will not matter. And who knows, perhaps we may find some old item of Maskyr's lying about where none have yet stumbled upon it." She dared not hope that was true. Perhaps the archmage had left behind a powerful wand, or even one of his own spellbooks, at the bottom of this well- and that it was just waiting for some brave young wizardess to claim after all these years.  
  
"That's it then, we are all agreed!" said Inven, rubbing his hands together. "In we go. Now, Bunker, you grab the rope from the pack mule, and tie it tightly around that tree there. Good Aendar, I think twould be best that you go in first. I'd hate to have you fall on top of anyone wearing all that chain mail." Aendar consented without hesitation. "And Dran, you'll want to go next."  
  
In short order, they had done as Inven suggested. They lowered Aendar into the well until his boots touched bottom. It was dry.  
  
"I can't see a thing," he called up. "About thirty feet or a little more. I think there's a passageway here, but it's dark." Before Drannamon went in, Carine cast a spell on the brooch he wore at his cloak so that it gave off a magical light. By the light of Drannamon's enchanted clasp, they could see the passageway lead southward. It was easily tall enough for them, and just wide enough for two to go abreast. From the bottom, Aendar called up the good news. "There's a passageway down here, all right," he said.  
  
"Me next," exclaimed Shalea. She skittered nimbly down the rope. Soon, her sisters, their friend, and the dwarf joined her.  
  
"You next, lad," said Inven, helping Pinter swing his feet over the edge. "Keep a tight grip on the rope, and don't look down." The younger bard was sweating nervously, and the lute on his back kept banging into his elbows as he tried to clumsily get a footing on the sides of the well. "Here, lad, not like that," said Inven. "I'm a better climber. Let me take your lute, and I will bring it down for you." Pinter nodded gratefully, and let Inven take the instrument from him. It was a fine lute, made by the elves, with silver filigree and graceful lines. Pinter had spent his life savings on it when he'd decided to become a minstrel.  
  
"Thank you, Inven," he said. "It will be much easier for me to climb without my lute on my back. You can give it back to me when you get down." Inven nodded.  
  
"Of course, lad," he said. "Fear not. Now, take hold of the rope."  
  
Pinter suddenly felt a crushing pain to his temple, and lost his grip. His stomach lurched, and he felt himself falling. Looking up, he saw Inven looking down into the well from above, still holding his beloved lute. Pinter wondered why Inven had that evil look on his face. But he only wondered for a moment, because then he hit the bottom of the well.  
  
Above, Inven chuckled to himself and slammed shut the trapdoor, locking the metal clasp.  
  
***  
  
At the bottom, things suddenly became much darker as the light from above went out. Pinter's body hit the stones with a sickening thud, and the rope came trailing down silently.  
  
"What the bloody flux?" exclaimed Bunker.  
  
"What happened to the light?" asked Andryl.  
  
"What in the Nine Hells just happened?" demanded Carine. "Drannamon, bring that light back here."  
  
Jhenta knelt down beside Pinter. "By the Lady," she gasped. "It's Pinter! Let me get a look at him." When Drannamon came closer with the light, she was better able to see. "Oh, poor Pinter. The fall has killed him. What could have happened?" Andryl and Carine stared in disbelief at Pinter's twisted corpse, and Shalea covered her face in her hands.  
  
Bunker reached down beside the fallen boy, and picked up one end of the rope. "Can't you see? The rope's been cut."  
  
"It wasn't just the fall what killed him," Drannamon muttered. "We've been betrayed."  
  
Carine scowled, then looked up into the darkness. "Inven, can you hear us?"  
  
"That bastard Inven!" cursed Andryl. Shalea was sobbing.  
  
"We're going to need more light," said Aendar. "I've got a torch here in my pack. Give me a moment and I'll get it lit."  
  
"How are we going to get out of here?" asked Jhenta, looking up.  
  
"These walls are too slick to climb," observed Drannamon.  
  
Aendar's torch spluttered to life. Its flickering orange glow mixed with the steady pale radiance from Drannamon's brooch.  
  
"Well," Aendar said, "we are just going to have to follow this passage and hope it leads to a way out. Jhenta, are you sure the boy's dead?"  
  
"His neck is snapped, Aendar," she said.  
  
"Well, put a cloak over him."  
  
"Surely, we can't just leave him here?" Jhenta said, mortified.  
  
Aendar gave her a stern glance, gave everyone a stern glance. Bunker put a comforting hand on the priestess' shoulder. "Nay lass, we'll not leave him here for good, but Aendar's right. We can't carry him with us. We'll come back for him once we've found a way out, and give the lad a good proper burial."  
  
Drannamon looked back at the others. Of the innkeeper's daughters, Andryl looked to be the strongest. He took his spare shortsword from its scabbard and tossed the weapon to her. "Here lass," he said. "You're going to need it."  
  
Aendar drew his longsword, and led the way down the tunnel.  
  
***  
  
Aendar sensed something ahead that he did not like. He raised his hand, bringing the party to a halt. Peering ahead, he could see that another passageway crossed theirs. Two guards stood in the four-way intersection. They were not human, though each was about the size of a man. Their skin was grayish, their black hair was sparse and lanky. Their legs were short and slightly bowed, and their arms seemed a bit longer than should have been. They had snouts with tusks, and darting black eyes. Each guard wore armor of boiled leather plates and held a curved sword with a jagged-edged blade.  
  
"What ARE those things, Aendar?" whispered Shalea.  
  
"Those are orcs," he replied. "Cruel, evil creatures from the mountains to the east."  
  
Bunker overheard. "Orcs? Where?" He came forward for a look.  
  
"Up ahead there, guarding the passageway," answered Aendar. Bunker narrowed his eyes and pulled his old battle axe from his belt.  
  
"We have little hope of surprising them now," Drannamon said quietly to Aendar. "See, already they are looking this way. They have seen our lights, or heard our movements."  
  
"That leaves us with only one choice then, doesn't it," said Aendar. "We must kill them before they can go for reinforcements." He handed his torch to Andryl, who looked back at him wide-eyed, admiring the man's bravery. The paladin and the ranger nodded grimly to each other. This would not be the first time they'd fought orcs together. The two friends quickly closed the distance on the orc guards, weapons raised. The orcs seemed surprised to see the intruders, but they snarled and rushed to meet them.  
  
One of the orcs raised his sword overhead, and brought it down against Aendar, a bit clumsily but with a crushing strength behind it. The paladin parried the blow, then twisted at the waist and with a deft crosswise slash cut underneath the orc's chest armor. Blood splattered from the creature's torso. The orc's counter was slower. It managed to do little more than clang its sword harmlessly off the side of Aendar's mail. Aendar kept his concentration, and brought his own longsword across again, this time slashing deep into the orc's unprotected throat.  
  
Drannamon defeated his own opponent with equal skill. With the shortsword in his left hand, he parried the orc's initial slash, and with the longsword in his right hand severed one of the thing's arms at the bicep. The orc twisted in pain, allowing Drannamon to thrust his short sword through its belly.  
  
The two orcs fell two the ground. The two friends wiped the orc-blood from their swords as best they could, but did not sheathe their weapons.  
  
"How d'ye like that, tuskers?" said Bunker, rushing forward with the others. "Got what ye deserved." He kicked one of the dead orcs, and spat on the other.  
  
"Bunker," said Shalea, "I had no idea you hated these things- these orcs, so much."  
  
The dwarf turned toward the girl and shrugged. "Lass, d'ye think I spent all me life workin' fer yer father in his stables?" He shook his head so that his beard waggled. "Nay! I'm a dwarf, an' I've lived a long life as ye would a-count it. I've done much that no one e'er thought ta ask me about, an' even some what yer father din't e'en know." He looked down at the two dead orcs. "Them tuskers're the enemies o' my people. Always 'ave been, an' always will be."  
  
"None have a greater loathing for orcs than do the Stout Folk, save perhaps the elves," added Aendar. "And for good reason."  
  
"It has been many, many years since an orc horde came down out of the mountains," said Drannamon, sheathing his short sword. "Maskyr's Eye would be in terrible peril if that were to happen again." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Shalea suddenly looked a little more frightened and drew back. The other girls came forward to get a closer look at their new enemies.  
  
"Have we stumbled on a tribe of these evil things," asked Carine, "Living right under our very noses, less than a days ride from Maskyr's Eye?" The prospect was chilling.  
  
"Where there's one orc, there's always more," Bunker said in a grim voice. He stuck his axe handle between his knees with the blade on the ground and gathered his beard into a long braid. He stuck it through his belt before taking his axe up again.  
  
"Perhaps," said Aendar.  
  
Drannamon shook his head. "Most likely, we've just come upon a raiding party, or some miners or foragers. They couldn't move a whole tribe here without folk noticing. Orcs are wont to living in mountain caves, not delving in dungeons. Someone or something must have brought them down here."  
  
"Could it be Maskyr," Shalea wondered aloud, "Still down here after all these years?"  
  
"Don't be ridiculous, Shal," snapped Carine. "The archmage has been gone for centuries." Shalea glared at her older sister, and wanted to punch her in the nose. "Does no one but me listen to the tales in the tavern? Why, this could be a secret lair of the Zhentarim, or the Cult of the Dragon, or even the Red Wizards of Thay!"  
  
"Girls," interrupted Bunker. "We kin discuss this all later. Right now, we'd best not stand around 'ere any longer. This ain't an outing in tha country," he warned. "If anything should 'appen ta any of you, why ol' Lhullbannen will 'ave me 'ead." Then, they heard noises coming up the passageways from the west and from the south.  
  
Drannamon drew the shortsword from his scabbard and tossed it to Andryl. His expression was dark and grim. "Here lass," he said. "You're going to need this." He and Aendar braced to meet the oncoming orcs.  
  
***  
  
Jhenta backed into the eastern passage, the way they had come, panting. She huddled together with Shalea and Carine. She silently prayed to the Earth Mother to defend them all. Shalea and Carine were both white with terror.  
  
The floor was becoming slick with the spilled blood of orcs. Carine saw Aendar stumble. Facing two opponents, the young knight's death would come quickly if one of the orcs could take advantage of his momentary loss of concentration. Carine stepped into the passageway and began to cast a spell. Her hands were shaking in fear, and her heart was racing, but she managed the correct words and motions. It was not a particularly difficult spell for her. She pointed her right hand at an orc who was about to strike down Aendar. Two bolts of pure magic appeared and flew unerringly to their target.  
  
More orcs arrived to aid their fellows. The ranger and the paladin, standing back-to-back where the corridors came together, were unable to hold them all. Three of the creatures made their way past the swordsmen, and came charging at the innkeeper's daughters. Bunker, wielding his axe, tried his best to stand against them. Andryl, with her sword, came up to stand beside the dwarf.  
  
Yet, as fast as they could cut them down, still more orcs came. The company found themselves surrounded on three sides. Only from their rear, the passage which lead back to the well, were their no enemies. Carine stepped forward and cast an enchantment of sleep on their foes coming at them from the west, and three orcs slumped to the ground. Taking courage from her example, Jhenta, too, came forward, and, calling upon the giving power of the Earth Mother, healed the wounds of Drannamon and Aendar.  
  
They managed to fight their way out, though, and quickly followed Aendar through the door at the end of the north passage, and found themselves in a larger room with torches all around. There were two other entrances to the room, one to the east and one to the west. But the adventurers had no time to rest, for four orcs came snarling out of the eastern door. Drannamon, Aendar, Bunker and Andryl leapt to meet them.  
  
Orcs are not known for their intelligence, but they can be cunning at need, especially in battle. Two crafty tuskers, seeing that the other orc- soldiers were being cut down by the human intruders, decided to try a different sort of attack. They approached with stealth, and, grinning cruelly to one another, slipped quietly into the room through the western door. Shalea stood closest to them. She was small, for a human, and the two would be easily able to overpower her. They grabbed Shalea and she screamed. That earned her a sharp crack on the skull from one of her captors. She slid into unconsciousness before the orcs dragged her through the side door. Bunker and Andryl were already busy fighting a great orc, and Aendar was desperately engaged with another. Drannamon had just felled his opponent, and was about to come to the aid of the young lord.  
  
"Dran, go after the girl," Aendar ordered. With a nod, the woodsmen set off down the passage, grimly tracking down the orcs who had captured Shalea.  
  
***  
  
Drannamon killed the orc that was carrying the girl, and his captive dropped to the ground. The other orc turned on the ranger. The sound of swords clashing brought Shalea from her stupor, and she was able to hide in the shadows, for the moment forgotten. Another orc came up on Drannamon from behind, forcing him to fight two at once. Shalea, still dazed, looked at the body of the first orc Drannamon had slain. By the light of his enchanted brooch, she could make out that there was a dagger at its belt. Shalea took it, and with all her strength drove the knife into the back of the orc who had come up behind Drannamon. The woodsman killed the last orc.  
  
"Are you all right?" he asked.  
  
Shalea trembled, but still held the orc-knife in her hand. It was dripping. Her head was bleeding from the blow the orc had given her. But Drannamon had surely saved her life. Shalea nodded. "Yes, I think I am in one piece," she said weakly.  
  
"Good," he said, but did not smile. "Now, let's get back." They left the three orc-corpses. "That was very brave," he said. Shalea did not feel very brave, but she was glad Drannamon had said it of her. Together, they hurriedly made their way back to the torch room.  
  
***  
  
"We can't take much more of this," said Andryl. Slain orcs were everywhere. The girl was breathing heavily, but she still held a tight grip on the shortsword Drannamon had loaned her. Already, it was caked in the blood of orcs, and nicked in many places along the blade. In her other hand, she held a wooden shield she had picked up from one of the slain orcs. Her heart was racing, and she was bleeding from a good many scrapes and cuts. Fortunately, none of her wounds were bad.  
  
"How many more of them can there be," Carine wondered aloud. She leaned heavily against her wooden staff. The spells she had hurled during the battle had taken a lot of her strength, but she felt a strange sense of pride. She had not fallen or fled, and she had seen the fear her magic could inspire in the eyes of the orcs. Such was the allure of the Art.  
  
"Holy Mother preserve us! We are all going to die down here," whimpered Jhenta. The girl was on the verge of collapse, and perhaps only her faith kept her on her feet.  
  
"Quiet, girl, before I cuff you," snapped the dwarf. He glared at the frightened priestess, and she calmed down a little. Priestess or not, Bunker was not about to let her get hysterical. Fear could be infectious. "All of you, quiet. We must keep our wits about us, or we surely WILL all die here, or worse." The dwarf looked fierce and fearless. If he was unable to lift the girls' spirits, at least he would keep them from complete panic. He looked to the paladin.  
  
Aendar's face was grave, and pale, his expression was full of concern. A lucky thrust from an orc spear had pierced his mail, and he was bleeding badly from the wound in his side. But he kept his feet, and tried to ignore the pain.  
  
"Be of stout heart," he said to the others. "These orcs need some way of getting to the surface, so there must be another way out. We have only to find it. Helm the Protector will see us through, if we put our faith in him. But we need to find a place to rest." The paladin knelt then, for a moment. To the others, it seemed as if he was merely catching his breath, which, in truth, he was. But he was also regathering his inner strength. With closed eyes, Aendar whispered a prayer to Helm to guard over them. He felt a pang of guilt, but offered up a second quiet prayer- to Tymora, the Lady of Luck. They were going to need her help as well.  
  
At last, Aendar looked up. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the youngest, Shalea, had made her way to a dark corner of the room. The paladin smiled to himself. "Lass, have you found something?"  
  
"Why, yes I have," she answered. "It almost looks like a door. A secret door!"  
  
"Touch nothing, girl!" shouted the dwarf, bounding over to her. "There might be a trap." Suddenly alarmed, Shalea practically jumped backward. Aendar got wearily to his feet, and went over to examine Shalea's find along with the others.  
  
"By Moradin's Bloody Orbs," exclaimed the dwarf, "She's right! It IS a door. Step aside, lass, let me get a closer look." The secret door must have been made by dwarves, because, once he'd spotted it, Bunker had no trouble finding the catch. It swung silently open, revealing a staircase.  
  
"Aww," said Shalea, disappointed. "It goes down."  
  
Cautiously, the company made their way single file down the spiral staircase. They pulled the secret door shut behind them. On each step were carved runes. Carine thought some of them might be arcane, but others Bunker insisted were ancient dwarven letters. Since neither could make out the words, Aendar would not permit them to stay long to decipher them. The stairs led them down to an even darker, colder part of the dungeons, to a place which had not been touched in centuries.  
  
No one noticed that one of the rune-markers glowed faintly for a moment, then faded.  
  
***  
  
A cold wind stirred the dust in a silent chamber, deep under Maskyr's Bluff. The Guardian awoke, and reached out with its senses, searching cautiously. For uncounted winters, it had lain there, asleep in the darkness. The Guardian was bound to the spot, doomed to guard these ancient halls for eternity, or until its Master should return and release it. Now, it sensed something, faint and far off, yet unmistakeable after centuries of silence and emptiness. It sensed warmth, and light, and blood and life. Anger grew within it. Slowly, like a shadow among shadows, it moved.  
  
*** 


	4. Chapter 3: The Fallen Harper

CHAPTER THREE: THE FALLEN HARPER  
  
Maskyr's Eye, 15 Flamerule, DR 1361, the Year of Maidens  
  
Inven chuckled to himself and slammed shut the trapdoor, locking the metal clasp.  
  
"Disposing of them was so easy," he thought. After gathering up the horses, he stowed Pinter's lute and set out for Ulcrimmon Alskayl's place. He briefly considered riding south first, skirting Maskyr's Eye, then dismissed the idea. It would look too suspicious if he were seen leading three riderless horses across country. Better to go boldly through the town, using the road, looking as though nothing was amiss. He even nodded to the peasant sweeping the path to the apothecary shop as he passed by the gate. The handsome bard unconsciously fingered the pommel of his sword as he went.  
  
The Alskayl boys were half-orc. Some of the Maskyrvians considered them all orc, but they never really caused any trouble, so they lived there in peace. The whole clan lived together in a crude, one-room longhouse on the eastern side of Maskyr's Eye. They were hunters and woodsmen, not farmers, so the old barn on their land was rarely used. Inven made his way there, and found Ulcrimmon and one of his brothers waiting for him as planned.  
  
"Keep her quiet, and hidden," he told them. He tossed the brothers a sack of coins. "Half now, half when I am well away from here." Both nodded. They turned and headed towards the hayloft to wait for nightfall. Their backs were to the bard. Inven briefly considered killing the two then and there, but decided against it. Better to wait. He took his hand from the pommel of his sword. The two half-breeds went up into the loft, each carrying a flask of sund, the cheap local vintage. Soon after nightfall, they would all be well away from here.  
  
Inven turned to his captive, who lay on the floor of the barn, bound hand and foot. Sshansalue Wonderharp glared up at him over her blood-stained gag. He'd cut out her tongue, and broken her knuckles. Her leather armor, what was left of it, hung in tatters. Her golden hair was cropped short. Cuts and bruises showed she had been beaten.  
  
The treacherous Dalesman grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. She winced. Sshansalue wanted to look away, but could not. "I bet you'd like to know why I've done this to you," he taunted, "And what I plan to do with you." Inven may have broken her body, but he had not yet cowed her spirit. He could see that much in her eyes. She did want to know. She still hoped to escape. "Well, you will find out soon enough," he said. He released her, and smiling, went out to bring in the horses.  
  
There was a bounty on Harpers, and Inven Burlisk, the Fallen Harper, knew where to find quite a few of them.  
  
***  
  
Sagor the Speaker sat fuming on his makeshift throne. His jaw was clenched and a vein stood out on his forehead. His knuckles grew white, so tightly did he clutch the ancient, magical scepter in his hand. He smoothed his purple robes, and tried to restrain himself.  
  
Before him stood Ghalluk, a huge orc chieftain, leader of the Clan of the White Tusk. His armor was battered and slashed. His black cutlass, once the scourge of his tribe, was notched and dull. Ghalluk wore a crude bandage about his head, and the side of his face was covered with dried blood- his own, and that of his fellow orcs. His left arm was broken, so he carried his shield on his back. The bone protruded visibly from his forearm. The wound had been quickly cauterized by his tribe's shaman. It was a horrible disfigurement, one which would jeapordize Ghalluk's leadership of the clan in the near future. If the clan HAD any future. The human adventurers had come upon Ghalluk's orcs suddenly, and cut through them with shameful efficiency. The chieftain's heart burned black, eager for vengeance. But the Speaker had summoned him, and Ghalluk had come.  
  
The orc lord shifted his weight nervously, and bowed before Sagor, as informally as he dared. He knew things had gone badly, and he would be blamed. At that moment, Ghalluk knew mostly fear, and pain, and anger, but he was also proud, and would not allow his fear to show. Especially to the purple-robed Sagor.  
  
"Have you captured these interlopers?" demanded Sagor.  
  
"Not yet, Wise One," answered Ghalluk. The very act of speaking caused the orc a blinding pain, though, but he gritted his teeth and did little more than wince. "But we have them trapped on the Second Level, below the Spiral Stair." His mastery of the Common Tongue of men was very good, for an orc.  
  
The Speaker snarled. "Trapped?" he shrieked. "I want them captured, or dead! They have disrupted our plans, and there can be no delay. Do you understand me, you fool? No delay. I want them dead!"  
  
Ghalluk simply bowed his head. "It shall be done, Wise One," he said.  
  
Sagor leaned back and dismissed Ghalluk with a contemptuous wave of his hand. As soon as the wounded orc-lord had left the audience chamber, a slim figure emerged from hiding behind a curtain. She wore purple robes, not unlike Sagor's, though not so opulent. Hers were a good deal more fitting and revealing as well. While Sagor held a scepter, she carried only a simple wand of beech. The woman looked at Sagor, sitting furious on the stack of crates he liked to think of as a throne. The Speaker glared at her, and beckoned her over.  
  
"He spoke no lies, Speaker," she reported quietly, "Nor did he think any treacherous thoughts towards you."  
  
Sagor the Speaker nodded impatiently. He could have guessed as much from simply looking at the orc-chieftain. He beckoned the lovely, dark-haired young wizardess still closer.  
  
"Our excavations must not be delayed," Sagor commanded. His voice sounded shrill in the torchlit underground chamber. "The scrolls of the archmage Maskyr lie somewhere in the collapsed tunnels of this level. We must find them, for the glory of the Cult of the Dragon. With that ancient knowledge, we could." The woman raised an eyebrow.  
  
The Speaker leaned back in his throne. He drew a folded map from one of the sleeves of his robes. "Here is a copy of our map," he said. "It shows the upper levels of these ruins, and where we have already dug. The chief miner has the only other copy. I entrust this to you, now." He eyed the wizardess cautiously, then handed it to her. She took it reverently, as if it were a thing of great value, and tucked it into the front of her robes.  
  
"That incompetent Ghalluk will have to pull more soldiers from digging to pursue these meddlers," Sagor continued. "I want you to take the acolytes and gather any orcs you can find- shirkers, the wounded, even their fool shaman- and continue the work." He looked into the woman's eyes. "Can you do that for me, Neske?"  
  
The woman leaned closer to Sagor. His age was beginning to show. Soon, he would be no match for her. She smiled seductively. "Of course, my master," she whispered.  
  
***  
  
Jhenta looked puzzled. "Why are we going down? I want to get out, not go further in!"  
  
"I know, lass," said Bunker, "But we cannot go back that way. The tuskers are too thick, and too angry."  
  
"The dwarf is right, Jhenta," added Aendar. "We've dealt the orcs a major blow, but they will soon regroup and come after us. We must find a place to rest where we can better defend ourselves."  
  
"It looks as if the orcs have never been down here," said Drannamon. The ranger knelt down and examined the flagstones at the base of the stairs more closely. "In the woods, I can track a bear for leagues, but in here, I am not sure how well I can read the signs. Still, it does not look as if this area has been disturbed in some time. For whatever reason, I don't think the orcs have been down here before." He spoke the truth. No tracks other than their own marred the dust. Yet, they all wondered why the orcs did not come here.  
  
"That may mean we can find refuge down here," said Aendar, "though it may be only for a while. I think it would be best if we stayed down here for a while. We need to find a place to rest." The others looked at him like he was mad. Shalea moved over to stand beside Drannamon.  
  
"At this rate," said Carine, "we are never going to find that other exit." Aendar scowled, but did not reply.  
  
At the bottom of the spiral stair, they came upon a passageway. It was very similar to the passageway they'd first encountered at the bottom of the well. That seemed so long ago, now. By the light of their torches, they spotted a wooden door on the right wall of the passage, just a few paces from where they stood. Rather than venturing further down the passage, they decided to see what lay behind the door.  
  
"It looks to be nothing more than an old storeroom, untouched for many winters," said Aendar. "We can rest here."  
  
Jhenta followed him into the room and looked around. "Must we stay here? It smells like a middens," she complained.  
  
***  
  
The Guardian did not smell blood, but it did sense the living, in its own way. The scent was faint, and distant. Silently, invisibly, it made its way through the halls the dwarves had delved for its Master, seeking the intruders. But it was puzzled. From two directions, now, it could sense beings which were not permitted. Here in the Lower Halls, the source was faint and weak. But farther on, up the stairs to the upper chambers, the traces were stronger. There, the Guardian did not often go. The Guardian turned its head, this way and that, unsure. Up the stairs it must go, upward toward the stronger. Stronger meant more- more attackers, more prey. The ones here, the weaker ones, could wait. The creature made its way to the Spiral Stair, and crept up, towards the sound of orc voices.  
  
***  
  
Carine scowled at Aendar. "We are fools to sit around down here any longer," she said. "We should be looking for materials to make a ladder, and climb back out the way we came in."  
  
Aendar turned away. "There must be another way out," he insisted. "I've said it already- orcs cannot live without food. And besides, it is foolish to risk going back now. The orcs know we are here, and they will be watching for us. Even if we could fight our way back to the well, a ladder might not work. Inven could have piled rocks on top of the trapdoor by now."  
  
"Well, we cannot stay down here forever," Carine said. "The orcs are sure to discover soon where we have gone."  
  
"We are not going to stay down here forever, my lady," said Aendar, clenching his fist. "Only until we find another passage leading out. If it makes you feel any better, Drannamon and I will stand watch."  
  
"Oh, you have decided that, have you?" She looked at Andryl and Shalea. "Well, my sisters and I will take our turns at guard duty as well. We are equal members of this partnership."  
  
"As you wish, my lady" said Aendar. "Perhaps you would like the first watch?"  
  
The wizardess glared at him for a moment, trying to detect if there was any sarcasm in his voice.  
  
Drannamon would take the first watch, Bunker the last. Aendar himself took the middle watch, while Jhenta Sulpir and the innkeeper's daughters would each take an hour in between. The others settled down, to get what sleep they could.  
  
Aendar came over and sat down next to Carine, who was reading from her spellbook. He took a whetstone from his pouch, and began to sharpen his sword.  
  
"I apologize if my words were too harsh, earlier," he said.  
  
"Not at all. We just had differing opinions," she replied, coolly.  
  
He looked over at Carine. "Why is it that you wish to become a wizard, my lady?" he asked.  
  
She closed her spellbook and set it on her lap. She took the spectacles from her nose, and wiped the dust from them with her sleeve.  
  
"Many bands of adventurers come to my father's inn," she began. "One such band called themselves the Six Swords of Sevencho. It was an evening, perhaps a year ago, when they came to stay at the Wizard's Hand. They began asking about guides, and trackers- anyone who was familiar with the Giantspike Mountains, and if there was any way up into them. They had heard the tales of Maskyr's tower, and planned to visit the ruins in hopes of plundering them, but that was not why they had come."  
  
"I asked what brought them to Maskyr's Eye. 'We have a treasure map leading to a ruined dwarven city,' one of them said. They were on an expedition to the Glacier of the White Worm."  
  
"Too well do I remember them, though I have forgotten most of their names. There was a beer-drinking dwarf, a huge barbarian, a crafty halfling, a staff-wielding friar, and an elven wizard. They wore fine clothes and shiny armor and outlandish gear. Their gold and magic fascinated me and my sisters."  
  
"As the evening passed, they drank as quickly as I could bring it to them- first brandy, then my father's good ale, then finally sund by the skinful. They became drunk, and started behaving badly. My father would have thrown them out, I think, but he was too busy that night to deal with them properly. So instead, they went on, bragging about their exploits, flaunting their wealth, insulting the people of Maskyr's Eye. They called us peasants and dirt farmers."  
  
"That night, they asked me to come away from the Wizard's Hand, to the top of Maskyr's Bluff, for a little adventure. So I followed them. But their idea of adventure was not the same as mine, and they tried to have their way with me. Luckily, Shalea had followed me in secret, and when she saw what was happening, ran back to fetch my father."  
  
"He was furious. He organized a group of villagers and led them to the top of Maskyr's Bluff. Somehow, they managed to save me from the Six Swords. Things nearly came to blows, and I fear that if they had, my father would not have survived, and many good young Maskyrvians would have perished as well. But the adventurers backed down- I think because they were so greatly outnumbered, or perhaps because most of them were too drunk to fight. The elder ordered the Six Swords to leave Maskyr's vale and never return. They were exiled, and left the next day, and have not been heard from since."  
  
"I vowed I would never again be taken advantage of, and set out to become an apprentice wizard." She scowled, and took up her spellbook. "Now, leave me be. I must study."  
  
***  
  
Time had little meaning for them, in that cold, dank, windowless room, so they measured their watches by a little candle which Jhenta had brought. Andryl was awake, sitting by the door. It was slightly ajar, so she could listen out into the hallway for sounds approaching. She had heard nothing, so she sat, clutching tightly to her drawn sword, watching the candle burn down. Too slowly. Bunker was closest to her. The dwarf sat hunched up in his cloak, his back to the wall. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was slow and regular. He held his battle axe against his chest with both hands. In the far corner, Carine was also awake. Her nose was stuck in her spellbook. Shalea stirred, and came over to sit next to Andryl.  
  
"It is not your turn to watch, yet," Andryl said. "Why don't you go back to sleep?"  
  
"I cannot sleep in here," answered Shalea, "Even though Aendar and Drannamon say it is safe. It is too cold, I am too frightened."  
  
"I cannot sleep either," conceded Andryl, "though I have never felt so tired. I ache all over." The salve Jhenta had put on her wounds was beginning to itch.  
  
"I am so hungry." The younger sister rubbed her stomach. "You don't have anything to eat, do you?"  
  
Andryl shook her head. "No, nor any water, either. I am dying of thirst." She sighed. "There's no telling how long we will be down here."  
  
"It is so cold down here," Shalea complained. "I wish I'd brought another cloak."  
  
"We left them all up on the pack mule with the rations." The two Orlsyr sisters were quiet for a moment. They huddled next to each other, taking a little comfort from the others presense. Across the chamber, Carine finally closed her spellbook and lay down to sleep. Bunker was snoring.  
  
"This is no adventure," said Shalea after a while. "We are fighting for our very lives."  
  
"The only way we will stay alive and escape is if we stay alert and guard one another."  
  
"I wish we'd never come down here. I don't WANT to be an adventurer any more."  
  
Andryl nodded in agreement. "The only thing that keeps me going is the thought of finding that traitor Inven and running him through."  
  
Shalea did not know what kept her going, so she laid her head down on her sister's lap. Her mind just was not working properly. She looked over at the sleeping form of Drannamon, but said nothing.  
  
***  
  
The Guardian crossed the Rune of its own Making, and the etched symbol pulsed. That meant nothing. Ahead was a door. The narrow space under the door was a mere crack, but it was enough. Portals meant nothing. It's senses screamed, now- LIFE, WARMTH, BLOOD! But also, DANGER, INTRUDER, ENEMY! So close now, just beyond. The Guardian flowed under the door, silently, and into the light. Light burned the Guardian, but it was not afraid. It must remain in the shadows. It WAS a shadow, in a sense. And from the shadows, the Guardian brought death. Many orcs were crowded in the room. Swords and spears were out, held ready, as if they were preparing an attack. But there were also many torches, so each of the invaders cast many shadows. That was how the creature struck- through their shadows. Chaos erupted. The orcs flailed blindly, striking without aim, hacking and slashing an invisible foe. The Guardian fed, and the orcs fell.  
  
***  
  
Nekse held her breath as she surveyed the carnage of the torch room. The wreckage caused by the human adventurers was nothing compared to this. In the flickering torch light, she could see there was very little blood. In fact, the corpses looked- dessicated, dried. That was not all she found strange about the scene. Something in the way the orcs lay fallen struck her as out of place. Most seemed to have met their end with their backs to a wall, or near to one. She'd seen the aftermath of enough orc-battles in confined spaces to know that they had not been using their usual tactics.  
  
"Stay back," she commanded. Two warriors from the Cult of the Dragon had accompanied her. They wore cloaks of purple, with veils of a similar color drawn up to cover their faces. They were clad in black ring mail and carried large, curved swords. They were her assigned bodyguards. "Remain just outside the room," she ordered. "I need to examine this, to learn what has happened." They complied without question, standing silently, alert, swords drawn.  
  
"What would cause orcs to abandon their tried-and-true fighting style," she asked herself. "And what would shrivel a corpse- so many corpses- like this?" She shuddered. "Perhaps we have underestimated the humans trapped below." She glanced nervously at the wall, where she knew a hidden door stood. "No," she thought. "Those humans could not possibly wield this much arcane power. This would take an archmage. But if there were an archmage here, the Cult would have informed Sagor. It must be something else."  
  
Something stirred, and the wizardess swung her wand about to face it. It was one of the orcs she had taken for dead. "Ghalluk yet lives," she marvelled. "But not for long." She went over to him. The orc-chief opened one eye, and it seemed that he recognized her. He tried to speak. "Probably his last words," Neske thought, without compassion. Unfortunately, the orc was no longer thinking clearly, so he spoke in the orcish tongue rather than Common.  
  
Neske knew some orcish, but not much. She relied on spells to translate for her. Unfortunately, she hadn't anticipated this, so she had to try to understand what the warrior was saying using more mundane skills. Ghalluk seemed delerious. The only words Neske could make out in his ramblings and cursings were "shadow" and "demon" and "death." Death repeated many times over. But nothing about the humans. She would have recognized that word, had Ghalluk spoken it. Then Ghalluk collapsed, and with a final shudder, he died.  
  
"That's it," Neske thought. "The humans unwittingly released something from below. That means they are probably dead now, too- drained, shriveled corpses like Ghalluk and his orc soldiers." She looked around carefully. A chilling thought occurred to her. "Where is the thing now? Has it gone back?"  
  
The sound of screams coming from Sagor's audience chamber answered that question for her.  
  
***  
  
The guests at the Wizard's Hand were interrupted by an ear-piercing shriek from the kitchens.  
  
"Now, calm down, Maefi," urged Lhullbannen. Aarrisson, the old constable, stood by the door.  
  
"How can I be calm, husband," she wailed, "when three of my daughters are gone missing? They've not been about all day! This is all your fault, you and your ADVENTURES!" The big woman lapsed into a fit of tears.  
  
Her accusation wasn't fair, but it may have had some truth to it. Lhullbannen closed his eyes, and tried to remain calm. He had to think. There was some mystery here, and it had the makings of something truly sinister. It was not only Carine, Andryl and Shalea who had disappeared.  
  
"Everyone's gone, Lhull," said Aarrisson. "Bunker, the Lady Sshansalue, her minstrel friend from the Dalelands, even the boy Pinter. Not a one of them's been seen since dawnfry." Both men looked worried.  
  
"What about those two men who rode in last evening," Lhull asked. "What were their names? Aendar and Drannamon. The nobleman and the scruffy- looking fellow?"  
  
Aarrisson rubbed his short grey beard and thought a moment. "Them too, I think," he answered.  
  
The burly innkeeper looked over at his distraught wife. "Maefi, we must prepare ourselves," he said calmly. "I am going to go upstairs and get my things. Don't worry," he added, "we'll find them."  
  
"Where is Jhesycha," Maefi cried, suddenly even more alarmed. "I am not going to let her out of my sight!" Maefi Lhullbannen ran out of the kitchens, hysterical, looking to find her youngest- and for all she knew, her only- daughter.  
  
After she had gone, Lhull looked over to his old friend. "It's true, Sshansalue is gone, too?" he asked. Aarrisson nodded. That was indeed grim news. "Lady Wonderharp said something to me last night," Lhullbannen continued. "When she'd first arrived, and before she and that other bard performed. Something about evil coming to Maskyr's Eye."  
  
Aarrisson looked puzzled. "That's a bit cryptic. Typical Harper talk. Did she say ought else?"  
  
Lhullbannen shook his head. "Nay. We did not have time to speak further. Whatever it was, I figured it for Harper business, and I'd hoped it would remain that way." He sighed.  
  
Aarrisson put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "We might still find them," he said, trying to sound comforting. "Your girls are always wandering off." Lhullbannen shrugged out from under his friend's hand. Saying nothing, he went upstairs to don his armor and sharpen his axe.  
  
Then it occurred to Aarrisson that he had not yet checked the stables. Going around the back of the inn, he opened the two great wooden doors and went inside. Three horses were missing that he knew of- Aendar's light warhorse, Drannamon's stallion, and one of Lhull's pack animals, a black- hair. The two Harpers had left their animals still in the stable.  
  
"That's passing strange," he muttered to himself. "It's going to take a sharper head than mine to sort all this out. Still, whatever's going on, I don't much like the looks of it."  
  
The guardsman climbed up into the loft that served as Bunker's sleeping quarters. The place was in disarray, but it didn't quite look ransacked. It did look as if a good deal of his belongings were gone.  
  
Then, he heard the horns. The horns of the dwarves sounding in the distance, announcing their approach at last. The Hornmoot was about to begin after all.  
  
*** 


	5. Chapter 4: Learning to Crawl

CHAPTER FOUR: LEARNING TO CRAWL  
  
Maskyr's Eye, 16 Flamerule, DR 1361, the Year of Maidens  
  
After eating a quick, cold meal of iron rations, the seven companions set out to explore their surroundings. There had been no sign of orcs during the night. Rather than going back up the spiral staircase, Aendar led them west, along the passageway.  
  
They did not go very far before the hall opened into a large room. The room was square, perhaps a dozen paces on a side, and just as high as it was wide. The walls and floor were formed of well-cut stone, though it seemed the ceiling was of wooden timbers. On the far side was a closed door made of wood reinforced with iron. A dense, greyish mass of fibrous strands covered much of the ceiling and the corners of the room. As the adventurers entered, they heard ominous rustling noises from several directions at once. Black shapes with many legs rushed out of the webs to attack- bloated, hideous spiders, larger than any they had ever before seen.  
  
Aendar charged forward, shouting "Helm defend us!" He cut one of the black vermin in two with a swipe of his longsword. With his shield, he bashed a second spider which had dropped down from the ceiling on a strand of spidersilk. Drannamon sped two black-feathered shafts into a spider moving along the main mass of webbing, pinning it to the ceiling where it hung, twitching. A sickly, greenish puss mixed with dark red blood oozed out to splatter on the floor below.  
  
Andryl turned to her right, to face a pair of spiders which were advancing from the shadows. She impaled one on her spear, then struggled to free her weapon. This allowed the other to close in on her. It latched on to her leg, and began climbing upward. The spider sunk its fangs deep into Andryl's leg. She cried out, and fell to the ground. Aendar heard her cry out. The paladin whirled around, and kicked the spider from atop her. It was dazed, but not dead. He pursued it and with a thrust finished it. Aendar turned to look back at Andryl. The innkeeper's daughter lay on the ground, writhing and clutching at her wounded thigh.  
  
Three spiders swarmed out of the main nest in one corner of the room, near the ceiling. They began spinning webs to entangle the adventurers. Two aimed their spinnerets straight at Bunker, and the dwarf suddenly found himself immobilized in a sticky mass of spidersilk.  
  
Carine, standing behind the others, spotted another spider moving up against Aendar from behind. "Drannamon," she called out. "Over there, quickly! Shoot it!" The wizardess pointed out the threat, and the woodsman nocked an arrow and fired. His arrow struck with a "thud" which sent the spider sliding across the floor, dead.  
  
A great, furry spider dropped down from the ceiling to land next to Jhenta. She turned to face it. She had never liked spiders, and this one had to be as big as a dog. The priestess swung her staff with both hands, but the vermin skittered out of the way. Shalea, standing next to her, saw that the spider was intent on Jhenta. Shalea took her knife in both hands- the same knife she'd taken from the orc earlier- and jabbed downward with all her might. The spider could not avoid her. She stabbed it right in the middle of its fat, disgusting body. The giant spider squealed, and splattered blood and sticky gore all over Shalea's arms. But the thing shriveled up and lay still. Jhenta wiped her brow, and gave Shalea a thankful smile.  
  
But the battle was not yet over. Bunker was still enmeshed in a mass of sticky webs, and he desperately tried to free his axe. An ugly spider was eyeing the dwarf hungrily, and moved slowly towards him. Shalea pointed at it, and Jhenta realized Bunker was in mortal danger. "Let's get it, Jhenta," cried Shalea. She dashed across the room, and with her knife started slashing at the webs which held Bunker.  
  
The young priestess hesitated. "I can't, Shalea," she wailed. "I can't even hit them, they are too fast for me!" Jhenta moved cautiously towards the spider, holding her staff defensively in front of her.  
  
Bunker began to get nervous. He eyed the spider that was coming towards him and redoubled his efforts to break free. His frantic struggles accomplished little. "Better do something quick, lass," he yelled. "The thing's comin' closer, an' I think it's hungry!"  
  
Shalea gritted her teeth. The spider was as close to her as it was to the dwarf, but it was evidently hungry and intent on its meal, and paid no attention to the girl. With her orc-knife, Shalea continued frantically slashing at the thick webs around Bunker's arms.  
  
Bunker glared at Jhenta, desperately hoping she would do something- anything to prevent him from the poisonous bite of the giant spider. Finally, Jhenta mastered her fear, and poked the spider in the back with her staff. That got its attention, and it swiveled its multi-eyed head to face Shalea and Jhenta. It clacked its mandibles threateningly. At last, Shalea managed to cut enough of the webbing to allow Bunker the use of both his arms. His axe was still stuck, so he grabbed the nearest spider with both hands and pummeled it into mush.  
  
Carine noticed that three spiders, at least, yet remained. They hung back in the densest part of the webbing, near the ceiling at the far end of the room. "Evocatium inferum ia," she chanted, rapidly moving her hands in a complex set of motions. With each gesture, her hands grew brighter, as if surrounded by an arcane fire. When the spell was complete, she waved her right hand towards the three remaining giant spiders. The mass of webs around them burst into sudden flame, engulfing the spiders with it. Three charred husks dropped lifeless to the floor. The flames consumed the nearest webs then died out. All was quiet except for Andryl's groaning.  
  
Carine and Shalea rushed to their sister's side. "Jhenta," pleaded Carine, "She's been bitten. You've got to help her."  
  
"Poisoned-" Andryl groaned.  
  
"I'm sorry," Jhenta said. "I can heal her wound, but I know nothing about poisons."  
  
Aendar nodded, and then looked to the woodsman. "What about you, Dran?"  
  
Drannamon came forward to get a better look at Andryl's wound. He thought for a moment, then pulled a wooden flask from his pack. "Hold her down," he said. "Firmly." Aendar and Jhenta knelt, and held on to Andryl's wrists. The ranger pulled the stopper and poured some of the contents of the bottle into Andryl's wound. She cried out in agony as the potion went to work, counter-acting the venom in the spider's bite. But in less than two heartbeats, she regained her composure, and stopped struggling. Andryl gritted her teeth, and dug her nails into Aendar and Jhenta's arms, but she did not cry out again. "Heal the wound now," urged Drannamon. "Quickly, if you can. Quickly!"  
  
Jhenta nodded, and placed a hand over Andryl's leg. The wound slowly began to close as the power of the goddess Chauntea flowed through her priestess. Soon it was over, and they released Andryl.  
  
"This is my fault," Aendar said ruefully. "We walked right into their lair. We should have sent someone ahead to scout first. Then we could have avoided this room entirely, or at least come prepared." He looked into Andryl's eyes. "I am sorry, my lady," he said. "You fought bravely."  
  
Andryl smiled weakly, and struggled to rise. The young lord helped her to her feet. The spider's poison had acted quickly, but already the effects began to dissipate. Bunker retrieved his axe from the web, and Shalea handed Andryl back her spear.  
  
"It was a good thing we did come in here," said Carine, from the far side of the room. The others turned to look, to see what she meant. The wizardess was standing over a large trunk she had found, partially covered in webs. "I want to see what is in here."  
  
"Stand aside," said the dwarf. Bunker raised his axe high overhead with both hands, preparing to break open the trunk.  
  
"Bunker, wait!" exclaimed Shalea. "There might be a trap."  
  
The dwarf froze, then slowly lowered his axe. "By the Anvil and Hammer," he swore, "Yer right, lass. What was I thinkin'?"  
  
Aendar looked at Shalea. "There might be a trap," he admitted, "But what other choice do we have? I think we're all agreed, we want to know what is inside." Everyone nodded.  
  
Shalea knelt down in front of the chest. Bunker stood next to her, and they all watched what she was about to do. First, she removed her backpack, and set it on the ground next to her. Then she took a small box from her belt pouch, and opened it to reveal a set of intricate tools.  
  
Andryl gazed incredulously at her sister. "A locksmith's kit? Where in all the Realms did you get THAT?"  
  
Shalea looked over her shoulder, and smiled mischievously at her sister. "Remember that elf who came into the inn last season? He gave them to me," she replied. Then, she turned and set to work, attempting to pick the lock. Shalea peered intently at the lock on the trunk for a moment, then went into her kit, selecting what she hoped was the proper tool. Trying hard to remember everything her mentor had taught her, she sat very still for a few long moments. She concentrated so hard her tongue stuck out just a little. At last, they heard a tiny "click" and Shalea jumped to her feet. She grinned from ear to ear.  
  
"I had no idea she could do that," said Jhenta.  
  
"I never would have guessed it," said Carine, laughing.  
  
Andryl could only shake her head in amazement. Bunker laughed heartily, and clapped the girl on the shoulder. Drannamon gave her a reluctant smile, and Shalea beamed with pride. "Well," she said. "Aren't you going to open it?"  
  
The chest was filled almost to the top with coins of all sorts- silver, gold, copper- even a few made of rare and valuable platinum. The seven adventurers all helped to scoop them out, and they transferred the wealth into pouches, sacks and backpacks. Being friends, they attempted to divide the spoils as evenly as possible, without stopping to actually count every coin. This treasure alone would allow them to live comfortably for the rest of their lives- if they survived to find a way out of Maskyr's dungeons. It was not long, however, before the adventurers began to feel anxious. Despite their successful find, most were eager to be gone from the room of the spiders, either forward or back. By unspoken consent, they decided to press onward.  
  
"After all," said Shalea, "what good is all this wealth if we never get to spend it?"  
  
"Is everyone ready?" asked Aendar. The others nodded. Carefully, he reached out, and pulled open the door.  
  
Opening the door triggered an unseen mechanism hidden within the walls and ceiling of the room. Undaunted by centuries of neglect, the trap operated flawlessly. A great scythe, like a silent, heavy pendulum, began its fall from a hidden compartment in the ceiling. The remnants of sticky spiderweb did nothing to impair its travel, and the sharp blade descended in a great arc towards the adventurers. Bunker stood right in its path.  
  
"Look out!" cried Shalea. The others turned to look. From the corner of his eye, Bunker saw the huge blade swinging silently down towards him from the ceiling. The dwarf leapt aside, and the trap missed him by a hair. "Swish." The momentum of its swing carried the scythe past the dwarf and up into a matching compartment on the opposite side, where it stopped and locked back into place.  
  
Bunker just sat there for a moment, wide-eyed and relieved to have so narrowly escaped death. Never had he been so glad to be short.  
  
***  
  
The next room was similar in size to the first, except that it was round instead of square. The adventurers entered from the east, and immediately noticed passages leading off in three other directions as well- north, south and west. They took care to look for any sign of spiders- or any other inhabitants- but saw none. This chamber was dominated by a short pedestal in the exact center of the room, atop which rested a strange, translucent crystal. It was as large as a pumpkin.  
  
Cautiously, the seven companions fanned out around the room. Aendar, Bunker and Andryl each went to one of the incoming passages, weapons ready, and peered into the gloom. Carine, Shalea and Jhenta went immediately to the central pedestal. Drannamon eyed the ceiling suspiciously. Areas of it were deep in shadow, and he feared another ambush. He kept an arrow nocked.  
  
Suddenly, they heard a rush, like wings. "Just as I feared," Drannamon thought. From the dark areas of the ceiling, a number of black shapes swooped downward. "Beware," he shouted as he loosed an arrow into one of the attackers. "Look out above!"  
  
The fighters all spun about, poised to attack. The spellcasters in the center, Carine and Jhenta, as well as Shalea, fled back to stand beside Drannamon.  
  
The monsters were like nothing they had ever imagined. There were four of them, and each looked like nothing so much as a black cloak, or perhaps some sort of bat. But they were not bats. Each one had two long, rubbery tentacles with barbed tips. They reached out from beneath their wings as they glided down to attack the adventurers.  
  
Bunker swung his axe with both hands over his head, trying to sever the wings from one of the creatures. The creature dodged, and he missed entirely. It landed atop him and coiled its tentacles about his waist. The monster tightened its grip, but it was not nearly strong enough to crush the sturdy dwarf. It completely engulfed the dwarf with its wings and snapped at him with hidden fangs. The dwarf's armor protected him from the teeth, but Bunker decided his axe was no longer useful. He dropped it, pulled a dagger from his belt and began slashing at the thing on top of him.  
  
Aendar managed to raise his shield up overhead, just as one of the things landed on it with a thud. The creature was not heavy enough to knock the paladin from his feet, but it reached around the shield to clutch and grab at him. With his sword, Aendar severed one of the things tentacles, but the other found his neck. He was saved by the metal collar of his armor.  
  
Andryl pierced one with her spear as it swooped, and it shrieked like a banshee. The thing whipped out its tentacles to claw at her face and neck, but was unable to dislodge itself from her spear. She held it at a distance and bashed it against the wall until it went limp.  
  
Drannamon saw one of the creatures swoop down on Jhenta as she fled. He fired an arrow into it, wounding the thing, and causing it to miss her by a handspan. The thing landed on the floor, instead, where it flopped around clumsily, trying to raise itself. It finally went down under a hail of arrows and daggers.  
  
"Is anyone wounded?" asked Aendar. No one was hurt.  
  
"What WERE those things," Jhenta asked, panting.  
  
Aendar and Drannamon both shrugged. Carine had never come across such a creature in any of her studies. They were surprised when Bunker answered. "Darkmantles." The others looked at him, somewhat surprised. "Denizens of the Underdark they are," he explained. "I 'aven't seen one in many winters. But then, I've spent more time in stables than in dungeons, lately."  
  
Andryl gingerly prodded one of the slimy corpses with the tip of her spear. "Knowing what they are called doesn't make them any less disgusting."  
  
"They're like octopuses with cloaks," Bunker added.  
  
Shalea scratched her head. "What's an octopus?"  
  
"And it's octopi," added Carine. She went over to the pedestal. "Now that that is over, let us turn our attention to this strange crystal."  
  
Aendar thought for a moment. "Carine, we cannot just ignore these other passages," he said.  
  
"Whatever you say, Aendar," replied the wizardess, rolling her eyes. Aendar glowered. He glanced at Drannamon and Andryl and Bunker, and tilted his head. The three silently agreed, and each went to guard one of the passageways.  
  
Aendar, along with Carine, Jhenta and the ever-curious Shalea, gathered around the square pedestal with its mysterious crystal. The wizardess gazed eagerly at the strange artifact, but as yet she did not touch it. The crystal was large and translucent with over a dozen facets. It appeared as if there was something inside it- a metal ball or sphere the size of a fist. The crystal glowed very faintly of its own accord. "There is definitely some magic here," she thought, and began the working of a minor spell.  
  
"What are you doing?" exclaimed Aendar.  
  
Carine scowled at him from across the crystal. "Don't fret, knight," she said. "I know what I am doing. I am just detecting magic. My spell will not harm the crystal." Her suspicions were confirmed, for under the light of her spell, the crystal glowed even brighter. Carine nodded.  
  
"Look," exclaimed Shalea. "There are some of those- what do you call them- letters here on the side." On the side of the pedestal which faced east, back the way they had come, Shalea pointed to some runes.  
  
"On this side, too," said Jhenta, who stood on the south side of the pedestal. Aendar and Carine examined the pedestal more closely and found writings on their sides as well.  
  
"Don't touch anything," said Aendar. "We don't yet know what it is."  
  
Shalea drew back her hand. "I wasn't going to touch it," she insisted.  
  
Carine gave her younger sister a condescending scowl. "Shalea, why don't you go stand over by Andryl." Shalea, used to being chastized by Carine, obeyed. She went sullenly over to where her other sister was standing. The wizard and the paladin turned their attention back to the crystal.  
  
"Here on the east side," said Carine, "I see three runes." She looked more closely at the pedestal. It was often the custom of wizards in the Forgotten Realms to devise personal symbols, magerunes, to act as a sort of signature. By the decree of the gods, no two wizards could ever have the same mark. One of them, Carine recognized. "This one here," she exclaimed, "it looks like it could be either a crescent moon or a winking eye. That is the mark of Maskyr himself!" She examined the others more closely. "These other two, I do not recognize. One looks something like a spear and a bow, perhaps. The other might be a mountain. They mean nothing to me."  
  
Aendar stepped aside as Carine went carefully to the next side of the pedestal.  
  
"This side is different," she said. "These are not wizard-marks here at all, they are plain old runes. This is writing." The other two sides were similar.  
  
"Writings," mused Aendar. He was curious. "Can you make out what they say?"  
  
Carine frowned, deep in thought for a moment. "This one is in elvish," she replied. Silently, the wizardess read what was written there in the stone. She didn't quite know what to make of it.  
  
//Two bodies have I, both joined in one.// //The less I am moved, the quicker I run.//  
  
"The writing on the west side, I cannot make out," she continued. "But the writings there on the south side are almost certainly in dwarven."  
  
"Dwarven?" asked Bunker. "Let me see what they say." He went over to the pedestal, and stood opposite Carine. "Aye lass," he said. "There's no doubt. That's the dwarf-tongue, at least on this side." He translated aloud.  
  
//The part of the bird that is not in the sky// //That can swim in the ocean and ever stay dry//  
  
"Bah," muttered the dwarf. "What mummery is this? Is this that fool wizard's idea of a joke?"  
  
"No joke, Bunker," said Shalea. "It sounds like a riddle." Andryl elbowed her in the ribs to keep quiet.  
  
"A riddle?" asked Jhenta. Shalea nodded to her, then shrugged her shoulders.  
  
Bunker then went around the pedestal, peering at each side in turn. He could decipher none of the other writings, until he came to the three marks on the east side. "Well I'll be delved," he exclaimed. "That's old Maskyr's sign, all right. But this one here is the mark of Tuir, the Deep King." He pointed excitedly at the rune shaped like a mountain.  
  
Carine looked at Bunker skeptically. "Are you sure? The Deep King was no mage. These look like wizard marks to me." All her life, she had known only Bunker the Groom, her father's stable-hand. She doubted he would be able to recognize any strange symbols.  
  
Bunker muttered and shook his head. "Do ye think I am daft," he spluttered. "What dwarf doesn't know the sign of the Realm of Glimmering Swords?"  
  
*** 


	6. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE  
  
Maskyr's Eye, 16 Flamerule, DR 1361, the Year of Maidens  
  
"Come with me," ordered Neske. The two veiled cult members obeyed. The wizardess left quickly, hastening towards the room where Sagor the Speaker had last been seen alive. The guards followed after her, leaving the room filled with nothing but orc corpses and flickering torches.  
  
But Ghalluk the orc-lord was not yet dead, as Neske had thought. A survivor of countless battles in the highlands, he had fought against giants, and men, and dwarves, and no few of his own kind. He was not easily slain. The great warrior groaned and stirred, and opened one eye. His vision was clouded. Never had he felt so weak. He knew his life hung by a thread. But Ghalluk also knew that Gruumsh the Cruel, the one-eyed god of the orcs, favored the strong. Gruumsh did not spare the weak, but he allowed the strongest of his children to survive. Survive so that they could bring death to their enemies and vengeance for the crimes comitted against his people. Ghalluk of the Clan of the White Tusk was not yet finished.  
  
Painfully, he dragged himself over to the body of the orc shaman. Ghalluk tried to speak, but found he could not. No sound came from his lips, only blood. He clawed at the healer's neck, seeking for signs of life. He found none. Moving slowly, the orc-lord reached into the shaman's healing satchel, and fumbled around until he grasped what he needed- a stone vial. It took Lord Ghalluk a long time to free that vial from the shaman's pouch, but at last he succeeded. Bringing the small bottle carefully to his lips, he drank the entire contents as quickly as his shattered body would allow, one small drop at a time.  
  
The healing potion burned Ghalluk each time he drank from it, and the chieftain felt every wound anew. But the healing draught took effect, and he felt some of his stolen life force slowly returning. The shaman's potion gave him a measure of strength to stand, but it would not last long. The great, wounded orc struggled painfully to his feet. "It would take a lake full of this magic to heal me completely," he thought, yet it was enough. He tossed the empty vial away and reached for his sword.  
  
Ghalluk looked around the room one last time. His soldiers lay dead about him. "That phantom, that shadow demon or whatever it is, could still be lurking about." The thought made him shudder. He looked down the corridor after the sorceress. He doubted he had the strength to defeat her alone, and she had at least two humans with her. "Some other time," he thought.  
  
He glanced at another doorway. Ghalluk knew that up that pathway lay the tunnels his clansmen had dug, and beyond that, an exit onto the surface. It would bring him out behind a hill, some distance from the nearest human village.  
  
"I wonder whether the Daystar will be in the sky," he thought. "I will have trouble making my way back to the mountains in sunlight. I will have to wait until darkness falls. No matter. I must get out of here, and bring word of this back to my people."  
  
***  
  
The cult wizardess Neske swept into Sagor's audience chamber with her two bodyguards close behind. Her eyes swept the room, searching for signs of the mysterious creature. She saw nothing. Cultists lay dead about the floor, just like the orcs in the other room. Only Sagor stirred. Neske walked slowly over to the dais where the Speaker lay. His breathing was labored. "He looks pale," she thought, "Drained. Even for him."  
  
Sagor noticed her standing over him. "Is it gone?"  
  
Neske looked about her, slowly, and shrugged. "I see nothing," she answered.  
  
"Good," Sagor coughed, "I must have driven it off." His voice was little more than a dry, weak sounding rasp. His expression was pained. Sagor was near death. That pleased Neske, and she smiled.  
  
"It finished the orcs quite easily," she said, looking around. "I see that our own soldiers fared little better." The old wizard reached a feeble hand towards Neske, but she took a half step back, remaining out of his reach. Her old master looked up at her, and narrowed his eyes.  
  
"It was some creature of the negative material plane," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I now suspect it was an umbrae, probably summoned centuries ago by Maskyr, and placed down here to guard his halls. It has probably gone back to its lair, but it will return soon." Neske nodded. This was something she had already surmised on her own, having seen the damage done to the orcs and men. She had never fought an umbrae before, nor heard of many who had. But now Sagor had. He looked as if it had taken all of his strength, just to drive it off.  
  
"You do not look well, my master," she said.  
  
Sagor did not answer immediately, but he looked up at Neske for a moment. He fumbled about with his hands, seeking for his wand. Neske saw that the ornate scepter lay to his right, out of reach. "I am fine," he lied. "The thing got me, devoured some of my life force, but once I cast a spell of daylight-"  
  
"It is weakened by daylight," she interrupted casually. "Yes, I know of these things. They attack only through shadows. That is why it was so successful against the orcs. In a room with many torches, one casts many shadows, allowing the umbrae many avenues of attack." She looked down on Sagor with barely-concealed disgust. "That was very clever of you, my master. Putting a spell of daylight on this room dispelled your own shadows. The umbrae had no way to reach you, and it had no where to hide. Pity, you did not think of that trick before it had already weakened you."  
  
Sagor looked up at her, suspiciously. "I am not weak," he spat. "Even now, my strength is returning. Now, help me to my feet, wench. We can still salvage-"  
  
"I am finished toying with you, Sagor," she hissed. "Too long have I answered to you and catered to your vile whims." She sauntered over and picked up his scepter from where it lay on the floor. When Neske turned back to face her master, her eyes were cold.  
  
"Give me that," he insisted. He reached out, trying to grab the wand from her, but the young wizardess didn't move. "You cannot do this," he spluttered, furious. "After all I've taught you, treachery and disobedience is how you repay me?"  
  
"I have learned more than enough from you," she said.  
  
"You impudent whelp! I will have you flogged," he snarled.  
  
"What, again?" she replied, mockingly. "I was rather beginning to like it." Neske held up her new wand, admiring it, running one of her slim fingertips along its side.  
  
"The First Speaker will hear of this," Sagor said. "Lord Samsonavicius will not allow you to escape unpunished. You will be thrown out of the Order! You will no longer be entitled to wear the Purple Robes. Why, I'll have your tongue cut out and see you sent to the mines for this!"  
  
Sagor's threats no longer meant anything to Neske. She was disgusted. Her patience was at an end. The time had come for the apprentice to take the place of the master. In the Cult of the Dragon, such things were almost expected. Neske had other reasons besides plain ambition to deal with her old master. The old wizard's expression changed from anger to fear when she slowly pointed the scepter towards him. Sagor began to plead, but Neske did not care. She knew where his spellbooks were hidden. She knew the wards and illusions which guarded his tower. She knew the arcane words that would activate his wand. She had not served Sagor the Speaker for so long without learning SOMETHING of value.  
  
The beautiful wizardess smiled as she blasted the old wretch to oblivion. At last, she was free of him.  
  
Neske turned to the two men who stood by. "The Speaker is no more," she exclaimed. "I lead this cell now." The two remaining cultists went to their knees, proclaiming their new loyalty. The wizardess was pleased. She slapped one end of Sagor's wand against the palm of her hand. "Arise," she commanded. "You are to search these tunnels. Make sure there are none left alive. Check every corpse, human or orc. If they breathe, I want you to finish them. Then I want you to go back to the entrance of the tunnels, and await me there." The men nodded and rose to their feet.  
  
One of the soldiers dared to speak. "When will you return, mistress?" he asked.  
  
Neske regarded the man icily. "Oh, don't worry," she said. "I shan't be long. I have some unfinished business with the ones who brought this upon us." With that, she cast a spell, and vanished from sight.  
  
***  
  
"Hrm," Shalea wondered aloud. "I wonder what this does?"  
  
They heard the sound of stone grating against stone. Shalea's face became very pale.  
  
"Look out," yelled Drannamon. But his warning came too late. A great section of the floor rose up, pivoting into the air. Bunker, Jhenta and Andryl stood atop it, and all three struggled to maintain their balance. The others watched helplessly as the trap was sprung, and their three companions were pitched downward into a chute. The floor slid firmly back into place.  
  
***  
  
"I'm going to kill Shalea when we get out of here," said Andryl. It was dark.  
  
"Where are we?" asked Jhenta.  
  
"I wish I knew," answered Andryl. She rubbed her bottom. They had landed hard. "Have you got a torch?"  
  
"I used to," answered the young priestess. "But I lost it somewhere. Sorry."  
  
"I've got a spare in me pack," growled Bunker. "Lemme see if I can get 'er lit."  
  
The torch flamed, and Bunker handed it to Jhenta. "Try not to lose this one," he grinned.  
  
The passage they found themselves in was wide enough for Bunker and Andryl to walk side-by-side. They held their weapons ready. Jhenta followed close behind with the torch in one hand and her staff in the other. They came upon a small alcove on the left side. It was barely larger than a niche. Andryl paused to examine it.  
  
"Might be a secret passage," she guessed, glancing over at Bunker.  
  
The dwarf nodded. "That it might, lass. But then again, it might not."  
  
"You don't want to find out?"  
  
"Not now," he answered. "I'd as soon we travel onwards. Ye most like cannot see it, but my dwarf sense tells me this hallway's slopin' upwards."  
  
Jhenta raised her eyebrows. "Upwards," she asked. "Do you think this might be the way out?"  
  
The dwarf looked back at her and shrugged. "I dunno, lass," he said, "but there's only one way ta find out."  
  
The passage did indeed slope upwards, but not steeply. Andryl and Jhenta could even feel the slight rise in elevation. Jhenta did not believe it until she paused to look back over her shoulder. That gave her a measure of hope. But continuing on, they found that the passage did not go much farther. It came to an end in a little room. Bunker held a finger to his lips for quiet, and gestured for Jhenta to come forward a little with the torch.  
  
Cautiously, Andryl stuck her head inside the door and looked around. Seeing nothing, she jabbed upwards with her spear, seeking for an ambusher who might have been hiding overhead. She did not expect to find anything lurking up there, but if the innkeeper's daughter had learned anything, she had learned caution. Andryl's eyes suddenly widened in alarm. "Uhm, Bunker," she said. The tip of her spear encountered not stone, but something yielding, fleshy, and very much alive.  
  
Two huge, shadowy figures leapt down from their hiding place above the door and attacked. Andryl dropped back a step to give herself room to wield her spear, bumping into Jhenta. The priestess screeched in surprise, and dropped her quarterstaff without even realizing it. She nearly dropped their torch as well. Bunker saw only two humanoids drop down in front of him. Acting on instinct, he immediately lashed out with a great swing of his double-bladed axe. "Look out," he called. The dwarf recognized the monsters as yet another terror of the Underdark. "Chokers!"  
  
Chokers were humanoids, but neither Andryl or Jhenta had ever seen anything like them. Even Bunker wasn't absolutely certain these were chokers, but he suspected. They were half the size of a man, but their legs and arms were very long, out of all proportion to their torsoes. They had grey skin, and snarled to reveal rows of wickedly sharp teeth.  
  
Hissing, one tried to wrap its hands around Bunker's neck. He swung his axe upward, severing one of the arms. The creature held on with the other. The other monster tried the same sort of attack on Andryl. She thrust her spear with all her strength, wounding it, but the thing's arms were longer than her spear. It kept its grip on her neck, slowly tightening. Then, a third creature appeared beyond the doorway.  
  
***  
  
Jhenta turned and fled, clutching Chauntea's holy symbol for comfort. The priestess had lost her quarterstaff somewhere when she dropped it out of sheer fright. "Please, please, please," she intoned, begging her goddess to save her- and the others, too. She still had their torch, so as Jhenta fled, so did the light. Bunker, being a dwarf, was not hampered by darkness, but Andryl found herself unable to see.  
  
Jhenta ducked into the narrow stone alcove they had passed earlier, and tried to catch her breath. She could still hear the sounds of her friends fighting off the three grey monsters. "Chauntea, give me strength, and protect Bunker and Andryl from those horrible monsters," she prayed. Then, a thought occurred to her, and she was ashamed. "I cannot leave them just to die like that. I must go back and help them," she thought. "But what can I do?" Jhenta Sulpir swayed and nearly fainted. She leaned against the stone wall for support.  
  
She leaned against a hidden mechanism. To her horror and surprise, the back wall of the little stone alcove that was her hiding place slid upward, and the young priestess stumbled backwards into a hidden room. "What have I done," she asked aloud. She spun around to see what she had uncovered. Before her was a circular chamber, lit with an eerie greenish glow. The light came from a series of strange symbols, apparently painted on the walls. The glowing letters were at waist height, and extended completely around the room. But her attention was immediately drawn, not to the glowing runes, but to the middle of the room. There stood a massive stone altar, or perhaps it was a sarcophogas. Atop it perched a cockatrice- the most horrific beast Jhenta had ever seen.  
  
It was not quite as big as she was, and it just looked unnatural. It was like a grotesque melding of bird and dog and bat. Its feathers were sparse, large and black. It had claws the size of meat-hooks, a reddish beak like a parrot's and a comb not unlike a rooster's. When Jhenta entered, the creature stirred. It swiveled its ugly head to face her, and let out a croaking, bird-like squawk. The priestess wanted to turn and flee, but she found herself paralyzed with fear. It hopped down from its perch. Jhenta screamed as the cockatrice came towards her. The monster tilted its head and looked at her with curiosity in its tiny black eyes.  
  
Jhenta Sulpir thought for a moment that she would live. Then it leapt at her.  
  
***  
  
Bunker hewed his opponent in two, but the newcomer came forward to take its place. The dwarven warrior shrugged off the severed hands from his neck. The third choker was now reaching out for him with its arms. He cursed when he heard Jhenta running away. Bunker looked over at Andryl through the corner of his eye. The girl was nearly defenseless without the light from their torch. He saw that she was in dire straits.  
  
Andryl cried out in pain as her opponent latched on to her shoulder and bit down hard. The girl fell to the ground, bleeding. The choker loomed over her, ready to snap her neck. The dwarf had sworn an oath to defend the innkeeper's daughters or die trying. Summoning all his strength, Bunker leapt to Andryl's aid. "For Moradin and the dwarves," he shouted in the tongue of his people. Heedless of his own defense, Bunker attacked and with his axe cut the head from the creature. In doing so, Bunker had left himself open. The last remaining monster grabbed the dwarf from behind and pulled him in. Bunker struggled and cursed and spat, but could not break free of the thing's encircling grip.  
  
Andryl rolled helplessly on the ground- wounded, blind and unable to help. She thought for a moment she heard a scream, perhaps it was Jhenta. But Andryl had no time for that now. Bravely, the girl struggled to her feet. Unable to find her spear in the dark, she drew the shortsword Drannamon had loaned her. She could see nothing, but she could hear Bunker struggling in death. His breath came in ragged gasps. Andryl heard bones cracking as the choker tightened its grip on the dwarf.  
  
The innkeeper's daughter began to weep. Bunker had saved her life, but now his own was in danger. She flailed about with her sword now, desperate. The choker retreated out of range, still holding on to its prey. The monster could see where she could not. Andryl cursed aloud, and cried. "Come here you monster! Where are you, Bunker? I am coming! Damn you, Jhenta, come back with that light! I cannot save Bunker without the light!"  
  
Whether it was pure luck, or some spurious whim of the gods, Andryl found the choker that was holding Bunker. She went into a furious rage, slashing and stabbing. She rolled Bunker's body out of the way, and hacked at the last creature until it stopped twitching.  
  
The room was dark and silent. She let her sword fall to the stones with a clang. The young lady warrior fumbled about on hands and knees, ignoring her own wound. In the darkness, she felt her way through the blood until she found Bunker. Praying that her friend was still breathing, she groped beneath his armor searching for a pulse.  
  
Andryl breathed a huge sigh of relief, and sat back on her haunches, sobbing. The dwarf was still alive!  
  
The cockatrice found them like that in the dark.  
  
***  
  
"Follow me, quickly," ordered Aendar. The young nobleman led them down the west passageway, past several closed doors without even pausing to look. He halted abruptly at the third door, though they had not yet reached the end of the hall. It was a large door, made of wood plated in bronze, covered in runes and glyphs. "In here," he said, gripping the large handle and pushing. The ancient hinges creaked, then the door swung open and they entered the room.  
  
Carine looked over at Aendar, her eyes suddenly full of doubt and suspicion. "How did you know to come here?"  
  
"Shut the door, quickly," Aendar said, ignoring her. He and Drannamon leaned against the heavy door and slowly pushed it shut. "We should be safe enough in here, for the time being."  
  
Shalea just stood there, holding a torch, her mouth hanging open. The room was part library, part laboratory, very cluttered and dusty. All they had dreamt of and more seemed to be there- all sorts of valuable and mysterious things, pieces of jewelry which were obviously magical, ancient scrolls of unknown meaning. This looked to be just such a place as they had hoped to find. The walls were lined with books and scrolls from floor to ceiling. Tables about the chamber were piled with the ancient devices of the archmage Maskyr. The staff of an archmage was leaned against a cloak rack. An incredibly ancient tome, covered in dust, sat open on a pedestal. A large globe of dark crystal was in one corner of the room, next to an empty cauldron. There was all manner of eldritch and arcane wisdom just strewn about the room, enough to make the lowliest wizard's apprentice into a mage of great power.  
  
But Carine the innkeeper's daughter saw none of it. She stared directly at the knight. "Aendar," she asked again, "how did you know how to find this place?"  
  
Drannamon and Aendar glanced at one another. "I have a map," the paladin answered.  
  
"Let me see it," Carine insisted. Aendar took a worn parchment from his pouch. He unfolded it and handed it to the wizardess. She stared at it incredulously. "Where did you get this?"  
  
"I am a Knight of Helm. We have many scrolls of ancient lore in the Armory, our great fortress on the edge of the Grey Lands of Thar. It was there that I was given this map."  
  
Carine's face darkened with anger. "You mean to tell us you've had a map all this time? A map showing the way out? And you didn't tell us?"  
  
"Drannamon," asked Shalea, "did you know about this, too?"  
  
The woodsman nodded. Both girls looked indignant.  
  
"He is not to blame, my lady," explained Aendar. "He swore an oath to me. He kept his word, so do not disparage his honor."  
  
"Honor?" Carine could no longer contain her anger. "What do you know of honor? You have been lying to us since we left my father's inn. And you call yourself a paladin. What sort of knight would deceive his companions like that?"  
  
"We all must make hard decisions, especially in troubled times," Aendar tried to explain. "Helm knows this. He is the Lord of Guardians, and so long as his servants carry out their sworn duties, he cares little for mis- steps made along the way. We must defend and protect above all. What king would not lie to save his realm? What priest would not lie to defend his flock? What father would not lie to save his daughter?  
  
"Well," Carine said, "you could have protected us a lot better by showing us the way out of here sooner. We nearly died. We still might die. And what of Andryl and Jhenta and Bunker?"  
  
"You think only of yourselves," Aendar said defensively. It was his turn to grow angry. "I came here not for wealth or adventure or for glory. It is the faraway city of Glister that I am sworn to protect, not the vale of Maskyr's Eye. Nor even the daughters of an old innkeeper. I am the last of my line. I have undertaken a sacred quest- a quest that could be the last hope of a people on the brink of destruction. That is my duty, and I will see it through."  
  
He clenched his fist, and turned to face away from Carine and Shalea. "I did not ask that you join me in my quest. I see now that I should not have allowed our paths to remain together for so long. But that night in the Wizard's Hand, I could see no harm in allowing you people to come with us. I think I was swept up by the enchantment of Inven's tales. Perhaps he bespelled us all. Little did I suspect that Inven would betray us all. But still, that does not release me from my mission."  
  
*** 


	7. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX  
  
Maskyr's Eye, 16 Flamerule, DR 1361, the Year of Maidens  
  
The Fallen Harper left Maskyr's Eye as the sun set, riding Aendar's stolen warhorse. He led Drannamon's mount beside him, with the unconscious Sshansalue tied to the saddle. Inven had placed a dark hood over her head. His two henchmen followed closely on black-hairs, drinking sund by the skinful. Inven led the way, riding steadily but not hard. They travelled northwest, following a game trail into the forest. By midnight, they were well away from the village, and paused by a stream to water the horses under the moonlight.  
  
As soon as Inven called a halt, the two Alskayl brothers hurried to relieve themselves in the stream, joking together in their loud, crude way. Inven dismounted and went over to his other horse. He untied his Harper prisoner from the saddle, though he did not release her hands or ankles. He lifted her to the ground, where he pulled back her hood and removed her gag.  
  
Sshansalue's once-beautiful face had become a red and purple mask of bruises and dried blood. Her left eye was swollen shut, but she opened the other to stare blankly at Inven. He examined her head for a moment. Her long, golden hair had been mostly cut off, crudely and unevenly, but he saw no deep cuts in her scalp. The Fallen Harper took a flask from his belt, pulled open Sshansalue's mouth, and forced her to drink. The bardess spluttered and choked, but swallowed enough of the diluted healing potion to satisfy her captor.  
  
"Beauty such as yours is a shame to waste, Sshansalue," he said quietly, so that only she could hear. He placed his hand on her waist, and slid it along her hip and down her thigh. "It will return to you, in time, I promise. You are worth a lot to me." He patted her on the leg. "Such a pity you will never be able to sing or speak again, but some precautions were unavoidable." He then replaced her gag and drew the hood back over her. "Who knows? Perhaps your new masters will even see fit to return your voice to you, as well."  
  
When the brothers returned, Inven saw that they were drunk. "Who told you to chop off her hair?"  
  
Ulcrimmon stared blankly at Inven for a moment. "Wha? Ya told us ta soften 'er up, boss. Ya din't say nothin' bout sparin' her hair," he said.  
  
"Yeah," added his brother. "Her hair was purty. Gonna make me a nice pillow."  
  
"Ya need us ta soften 'er up some more for ya, boss?" asked Ulcrimmon, eyeing Sshansalue.  
  
His brother snickered. "Yeah, we could all have some more fun afore ya go."  
  
"That won't be necessary," said Inven. He noticed the two half-orcs were slowly moving apart, one to either side of him. Ulcrimmon had his hand at his belt, near the hilt of his big knife. His brother held a spiked club low at his side. Their prisoner squirmed helplessly on the ground.  
  
"Well then," said Ulcrimmon warily. "We'll be takin' the other half of our payment, now."  
  
Inven smiled. "Fools gold for two fools," he said. The first sack of coins he had given them was a mere illusion he'd conjured. The two half-breeds obviously suspected nothing. By the time they learned the truth, it would be too late.  
  
Suddenly, the two trackers rushed at Inven, coming at him from both sides. The Dalesman drew his sword. He slashed Ulcrimmon across the arm, and removed his brother's hand- club and all- at the wrist. Before either of the treacherous half-orcs could land a blow, they had been disarmed and lay on the ground.  
  
"Meet Taverna," Inven said, "the Blade of Affliction." Inven tilted his sword so that the moonlight reflected off the glossy blade. "Bane of the beast-men, sword of kings."  
  
Keeping an eye on Inven, Ulcrimmon struggled to his feet and went to aid his brother. Both began to look strangely nauseous. Suddenly, Ulcrimmon clutched at his stomach. "Curse you for a fiend, Inven," he snarled. "What have you done to me?"  
  
"You have no idea what I was just talking about, do you?" The bard laughed. "Two-hundred winters ago, the lords of the Great Grey Lands found themselves beset by ogres too numerous to withstand. So, in the smithies of Glister they forged for themselves this beauty. The ogres thought themselves victorious, and returned to their encampments to divide their plunder. But those who had been wounded by Taverna soon fell ill. Their sickness spread among the camps. The plague spread quickly among those with foul blood, and many died. Thus the men of Glister had their victory. Now, begone, and count yourselves lucky."  
  
When the two Maskyrvians fled off into the woods, Inven sheathed Taverna. On the ground, Sshansalue gave up her struggling and lay still.  
  
***  
  
Ghulluk labored up the tunnel, but was nearly overcome by exhaustion as soon as he emerged from the hidden cave mouth. His timing could not have been worse. It was still dark on the surface, but the battered orc warrior could go no further. He collapsed and lay hidden in the brush.  
  
When the first light of dawn began to color the eastern sky beyond the mountains, he awoke. The short rest had done him good. He perked up his ears, and heard voices nearby. The lady-wizard's two bodyguards stood just inside the tunnel, wiping blood from their swords.  
  
One of the Cult of the Dragon soldiers looked up from his grisly chore. "How many did you find?"  
  
"Only two," answered the other. "They were both sorely wounded, and woulda died anyway."  
  
"But you still finished 'em off like she said?"  
  
The other nodded. "Aye, slit 'em wide open. There won't be any orcs comin' outta THAT hole."  
  
Ghalluk overheard this from his resting place nearby. A great rage awoke in his black heart. "So," he thought to himself. "This is why the mighty Gruumsh spares my life."  
  
Lord Ghalluk, Chief of the Clan of the White Tusk, rose to his full height. The two swordsmen could not see him in the pre-dawn darkness. His lips curled in a feral snarl, Ghalluk gripped his black sword.  
  
Bursting upon them with a cry of vengeance, the orc-lord butchered the two men where they stood.  
  
*** 


	8. Chapter 7

CHAPTER VII  
  
Maskyr's Eye, 16 Flamerule, DR 1361, the Year of Maidens  
  
Carine seethed in anger as she fought to control her temper. Aendar had found whatever it was he was looking for, a crown of some sort, among the things in Maskyr's dusty laboratory. The paladin silently tucked the jeweled thing into his pack and sat down to consult his map. Drannamon stood watchfully by the door.  
  
Shalea had seen Aendar take the crown, and was poking around the room herself.  
  
"Shalea," Carine snapped. "Don't touch anything. Your curiosity is going to get us into trouble. Just keep your hands to yourself until Aendar figures out where to go next." The young wizardess ignored her sister's pout, and went to examine the contents of the room for herself. Her attention was immediately drawn to the center of the room, where a large book lay open on a pedestal covered in dust. An arcane staff leaned against the wall next to it. Carine felt herself drawn towards them. Cautiously, she examined them further.  
  
"This is Maskyr's spellbook," she exclaimed. Hesitantly, she reached out to touch the book. When nothing happened, she gingerly turned a page, then another. The book was very old, and though it appeared frail, it did not fall to dust at her careful handling. Carine was almost in awe. Every page was covered with runes, written in a tight, meticulous script. Carine could not make out what was written there, and the runes seemed to shimmer dizzyingly when she tried to read them. With this book, and sufficient time to study it, she could become a mage of great power. Never again would she have to fear men. It is men who would fear her. Carefully, Carine lifted the heavy book from its resting place.  
  
"What are you doing?" asked Aendar, his expression dark.  
  
Shalea looked up as well. "You tell me not to touch things," she said. "And here you are, stealing this old man's book."  
  
Carine sent her sister a black look. "You don't know what you are doing, Shalea, you are just a child. But this," she said, pointing to the ancient book, "do you know what this is?"  
  
"I know exactly what it is, Carine," she answered, "and that is exactly why I didn't touch it. You can't make any better use of that than I can. You're no wizard."  
  
"I know enough," Carine said. "And with this, I can-"  
  
"You always think you know everything!" Shalea jumped to her feet. "Well, if you can take that book, then I can take this." She grabbed Maskyr's staff.  
  
"No!" cried Aendar and Carine in unison.  
  
In one corner of the room stood two antique sets of armor. As if awakened from slumber, the two magical guardians stirred. With weapons raised, the enchanted warriors advanced on the intruders.  
  
"Drannamon, to arms!" shouted Aendar, but the ranger was already moving. "Torm preserve us!"  
  
Shalea's eyes widened in surprise, but Carine saw that her sister was not looking at the two animated suits of armor. On the other side of the room, a rusty spear rose up from the floor. Menacingly, it approached the two sisters. Whether it was wielded by some unseen warrior, or whether the spear itself were magical, they could not tell. "Carine, look out!" Shalea warned.  
  
The ranger and the paladin each closed with one of the armored figures. The guardians moved slowly, but no blow seemed to stop them. No blood came from beneath the steel plates. Aendar swung, and the helm of his oppenent went spinning across the room, but the headless creature did not even hesitate. Drannamon and Aendar soon found themselves standing back-to-back in the dusty chamber, desperately trying to find a way to kill the animated guardians.  
  
Carine turned to face the spear coming towards her. Holding the precious spellbook in one hand, she began the gestures of a frantic spell with the other, but the animated weapon came straight towards her. She had to dodge out of the way, ruining her casting and knocking over the pedestal with a thud. Shalea leapt towards the thing from the side. Still wielding the twisted black staff, she brought it down with both hands on the middle of the animated spear. There was a great flash of light, and a loud snapping sound. The spear broke in two pieces and fell lifeless to the ground, but Shalea also fell, stunned by the magical backlash.  
  
Drannamon went down, felled by a terrible blow to the head by the mace- wielding suit of armor. Aendar leapt aside with an oath, and stood atop the fallen pedestal. Carine knelt beside him, desperately flipping pages in the old spellbook, looking for something she could cast. Shalea and Drannamon lay motionless on the floor. The two clanking metal warriors- one without a head- advanced slowly towards them.  
  
Elsewhere in the room, other objects began to shake and rise up of their own accord. A collection of various things- a chair, a candlestick, a moth- eaten cloak, a brass sphere- whirled menacingly about the room. The brass sphere swooped suddenly at Carine. It struck the side of her head, but she kept her hold on Maskyr's spellbook. The candlestick floated over to Aendar, uselessly banging against the top of his helm. The paladin tried to ignore the distraction and focus his attention on the more lethal opponents. Silently, the animated cloak floated up in the air, over the paladin's head.  
  
Carine turned page after page in the book, but nothing made sense to her. These were the spells of an archmage, and Carine was barely skilled enough to be called an apprentice. Aendar cried out as one of the enchanted armor- clad things landed a blow. Then, her heart leapt. Towards the back of Maskyr's spellbook were many blank pages, but on the very last page, there was something she could read. "To dispell the animations in the Lower Workshop, turn that which is written on the north side of the pedestal in the Crystal Room." This must have been written by Maskyr himself, she thought. But what is the Crystal Room? Carine remembered the room where they had been attacked by the darkmantles. There had been a glowing crystal there, on a pedestal. And she had read the elvish words there. She strained to remember what they were, it seemed so long ago.  
  
Two bodies have I, both joined in one. The less I am moved, the quicker I run.  
  
"A riddle?" Carine muttered. "We are all about to die, and I have to solve a riddle? Curse Maskyr to the Nine Hells, he must have been insane." The animated cloak was hovering above Aendar's head, and the paladin had no idea it was descending towards him. Carine looked around the room. Then, she saw a great hourglass standing forgotten and half-covered in dust in one corner of the room. With a cry, she leapt towards it. "I've got it!" Just as the cloak fell over Aendar's head, blinding him, she turned the hourglass over. With a loud crash, the two suits of armor and all the rest fell clattering to the ground.  
  
Aendar ripped the cloak from his head, and stared at Carine in amazement. She grinned back at him. But then her look of triumph turned to a look of despair, and the paladin followed her gaze. The door to the workshop opened silently. A terrible chill descended on them both. There in the doorway stood a menacing figure of shadow and darkness. The Guardian entered the room.  
  
***  
  
The Sembian merchant stood in the doorway of the Wizard's Hand. He eyed Lhullbannen with obvious distaste. "What are all those riders doing out in the square, anyway? They're raising an awful dust. Just look at my boots! Is that part of the security for the Hornmoot?"  
  
"Ah, well, several villagers have gone missing, you see. That is a search party."  
  
"Hrm, search party you say? That's too bad. You people really could use a few extra guards around here. Last year, I was robbed twice in one night. If any of my things are stolen this time, I'll hold you personally responsible, innkeeper, and make no mistake. And now you tell me the dwarves are late? Honestly, I don't know why I bothered coming all the way here."  
  
"Yes, well, you've nothing to fear under my roof. And the dwarves have never failed to come down. It's probably just a late snow has delayed them a bit this year. Now, if you'd just head on back to your room-"  
  
"What, you expect me to carry my own pack? Silver stars! The Wizard's Hand is not what it used to be. Where are those lovely daughters of yours?"  
  
A pained expression came over Lhullbannen's face. "Well, you see," he stammered. "It's my daughters that have gone missing. Them and my dwarven servant."  
  
The Sembian sighed and shook his head as he hefted his pack. "By Waukeen's Pursestrings," he swore under his breath. "Why did I bother coming to this pitiful backwater?"  
  
As the indignant merchant went off to find his room, Lhullbannen noticed two new travellers had arrived, an elf and a young man. At least they weren't merchants, he thought. Merchants could be worse than adventurers, sometimes. He sighed wearily and went to greet them, wringing his hands. "Hail and well met, travellers, he said. "I am Lhullbannen Orlsyr, proprieter of the Wizard's Hand. If you're here for the Hornmoot, I'm afraid it's been delayed a few days this year."  
  
"I am Osprey of Starmantle," answered the man. He looked around while shaking Lhullbannen's hand. "Your house is busy, goodman Orlsyr."  
  
"Aye, we are always busy this time of year, what with so many folks coming for the Hornmoot. Merchants have been arriving all day, and we're almost full to the rafters. What a time for my help to.run off, shall we say."  
  
"Perhaps we should seek lodging elsewhere, then?"  
  
"Nonsense! This is the only inn for miles around, although I'm sure a few of the villagers would share their roof for a night or two. I can put you up in the storeroom, if you like. It's the best I can offer."  
  
"We've slept in worse places. And besides, after coming all this way, I'd hate to go without sampling some of the fare at the Wizard's Hand."  
  
"Well, you're both very understanding fellows, and that's no mistake." He started to shout for Bunker, then remembered painfully that the dwarf was missing. "If you'll just follow me, I'll show you the place, and then maybe you can find a spot to sit in the common room. My wife will bring you a plate of something."  
  
"Tell me, innkeeper," Osprey said. "Is there a temple close at hand?"  
  
"Why, yes. I'm surprised you should ask, since it is practically right next door. The temple to Chauntea."  
  
When the innkeeper turned to show them to their lodging, Osprey of Starmantle glanced knowingly at his elven companion, who nodded.  
  
***  
  
Invisibly, Neske crept down the spiral staircase leading to the lower level of the ruins. She moved cautiously, knowing that the umbrae could be anywhere. Yet, she did not fear it especially. The scepter in her hand had increased her power significantly. Aided by her magic, she was able to traverse the many traps and pitfalls of the ancient corridors. The wizardess heard nothing, yet the adventurers were easy to follow. They left many signs of their passing- burnt spiders, the hacked corpses of Maskyr's subterranean guardians, open portals.  
  
Perhaps these adventurers weren't as incompetent as she had first thought. They had escaped Sagor's orc-soldiers easily enough. And they had come closer to finding the crown than all of Sagor's digging and excavating. If any survived, they might be able to lead her to it. The crown would mean all the difference. If she returned without it, she would bear the blame for Sagor's loss of the entire expedition. If she returned with it, Sagor would be revealed for the fool that he was, and none would mourn his passing. With the crown, even Lord Samsonavicius would have to respect her power. Perhaps taking Sagor's place was just the first step in her rise within the Cult of the Dragon.  
  
She paused before an open door set within a niche in a long hallway. A faint, greenish glow came from within. Cautiously, Neske entered the chamber. She grimaced. It was an ancient shrine to Azuth, the Lord of Wizards. She tread cautiously. There near the altar stood a statue. Odd feature for a chapel to the Magister, she thought. Upon closer inspection, Neske's suspicions were confirmed. It was indeed a statue, but not a normal one. This was the work of a magical creature, perhaps a basilisk or cockatrice. She smiled. It was one of the adventurers, turned to stone, a girl or young woman, dressed in priestly robes. The woman's face was frozen in a stony mask of terror and fear, literally petrified as she stood. Using her sceptre, Neske cast the spell which would restore the hapless adventuress from her stony shape.  
  
"What.what happened?"  
  
"You were turned to stone, girl," Neske said, in as kindly a voice as she could manage. "I have restored you."  
  
"Who are you?"  
  
"My name is Caladnei," Neske lied. She steadied the girl and helped her take a seat on the altar. "Now, be calm. Tell me what happened."  
  
Awareness suddenly returned to the girl's eyes, and with it terror. "You must help me! My friends are in danger!"  
  
"Calm down I said," Neske repeated, a little more forcefully. "Now, tell me your name, girl."  
  
"My name is Jhenta Sulpir."  
  
"Who are your friends? Where are they from? What are you doing down here?  
  
"Please, can't you help me? I just want to get out."  
  
"Answer my questions, girl," Neske snapped, her patience dwindling.  
  
Quickly, Jhenta recounted the names of her companions, and briefly told the story of all that had befallen them. "The dwarf and one of Carine's sisters are nearby. I don't know where the others are."  
  
Neske drew a curved dagger from the sleeve of her purple robe. Jhenta eyed it curiously. "What are you going to do with that?" Neske only smiled as she plunged the knife into the woman's chest. Jhenta gasped in pain and surprise, clutching at the older woman. Neske twisted the dagger brutally, and finally Jhenta slumped to the ground, blood soaking the front of her garments. Quickly, Neske searched the woman's belongings. A little priestess of an impotent goddess, she thought, discarding Chauntea's holy symbol. Nothing worth keeping- wait, what have we here? Her pack was full of coins, which Neske quickly took, leaving the rest behind.  
  
With a wave of her magical scepter, Neske's fitting, purple robes became the loose clerical vestments of the Goddess of Earth. Her magical scepter shifted to become the humble staff of a priestess. Her hair seemed to lighten from dark to brown, and her features softened and became younger. Even her voice changed. To all appearances, Neske became Jhenta Sulpir, young priestess of Chauntea. Once the illusion was in place, she set out down the corridor seeking the girl's companions, the ones named Andryl and Bunker.  
  
***  
  
Aendar whirled to fast this newest threat. He backpedaled across the chamber to stand protectively above Carine, who lay on the ground cradling her dazed sister. Drannamon moaned and stirred, but did not rise. The Guardian stood in the doorway a moment. It was manlike in shape, yet seemed incorporeal, as if it were made of shadow-stuff. Wisps of pale fog trailed in its wake as it entered. It seemed to walk like a man, yet Carine could not tell whether its feet actually touched the ground or not. The thing had a face, and although it was shrouded in darkness, Carine thought it may have been handsome, had it been a living man. It wore clothes, but they seemed half-real, like an illusion made of twilight.  
  
"Come no further, creature," Aendar challenged. The umbrae halted. It eyed him curiously, tilting its head. Its silvery grey eyes went to the others, then back to the young nobleman. It raised a hand in greeting.  
  
"Hail, son of princes," it said. It's voice was distant, yet there was a hint of eagerness to it. Carine thought the ethereal face almost smiled. "Long have I awaited your return." Carine and Aendar stared in amazement as the wraith-like figure bowed to Aendar and knelt before him. "Only the rightful heir to the throne of Thar could wear that crown," it said. "At last, my time here is done. The task I have been set to perform is now complete." The umbrae beamed a farewell smile and disappeared, leaving behind only a faint mist.  
  
Carine stared at Aendar. Her face showed a mixture of awe and disgust. "What in the Nine Hells was that all about," she spat. "What other surprises do you have in store, PRINCE?"  
  
Aendar was just as stunned as the innkeeper's daughter. He shrugged and lowered his sword. "I don't know what that thing was, or what it was talking about." He fingered his crown thoughtfully. "But whatever it was, we need to get out of here quickly." 


	9. Chapter 8: A Sort of Homecoming

CHAPTER VIII  
  
Bunker led the way, his notched axe drawn. His eyes blazed. He was ready to fight, since Jhenta had miraculously rescued them from the basilisk, and then managed to lead them back to the Crystal Room, where they found Aendar waiting with the others. The paladin had somehow acquired a map of the underground ruins, and he passed to the Bunker. They expected a fight, but the mysterious umbrae had done their work for them, it seemed. They passed an entire company of orcs, lying dead and shriveled. Many of them were equipped with picks and shovels- strange gear for raiders, but Bunker didn't bother to ask. He, like the others, wanted only to escape Maskyr's dungeon before it became their tomb as well.  
  
The surviving adventurers emerged, begraggled, into the sunlight. Bunker shaded his eyes, trying to regain his bearings aboveground. The great ship- like hill of Maskyr's Bluff lay to their right- they must have emerged somewhere south of the village itself. That meant the road lay somewhere behind them. The cave tunnel must have some enchantment about it, to have avoided discovery.  
  
Carine and Andryl came next, understandably shaken yet obviously glad to be on the surface again. Both cast frequent glances over their shoulders- not at the strangely introspective Aendar, but rather at the battered Drannamon. He had received a dangerous wound, which Aendar had patched with a hasty field dressing. The ranger insisted on carrying the unconscious Shalea himself, though he paled and staggered from the effort. Andryl and Bunker would have carried the girl between them, allowing Drannamon to lean on Aendar for support, but the woodsman refused. He slowed their hasty exodus.  
  
Jhenta brought up the rear, carrying their last torch. She'd been strangely quiet during their ascent- understandable, given how close they'd all come to death. She cried out, pointing, and covered her mouth with one hand.  
  
"What's the matter?" Bunker asked. Two corpses lay there in the brush, humans. Their bodies were butchered, and their swords lay in the dirt, dropped from lifeless hands. They wore unusual purple cloaks. "This is not the work of the Guardian," Bunker said, searching the ground for clues.  
  
"Get out of there," rasped Drannamon. "You'll mar the ground, and make any tracks harder for me to read." He gently laid Shalea on the ground and went to examine the find. "This is strange," he said, holding up a tattered purple veil. "What bandit chief uses this as his color?"  
  
"Can you make out anything else?" Bunker asked.  
  
Drannamon shrugged. "An orc killed them, from the look of it." He gestured at the brush and the wounds on the two men. "There are other signs, though. Blood, for one. I might be able to track the creature." The ranger bent down to more closely examine the ground, but then he collapsed.  
  
"Easy lad," Bunker said, rushing to his side. "That's a mighty gash on yer head there." He looked back at the others who were waiting around expectantly. "No need to exert yerself now. We're in no shape for a cross- country trek, let alone another fight. We can chase orcs another day. Right now, we've got to get ourselves patched up." He placed a hand under Drannamon's arm and helped him to his feeet. They both looked back at Shalea, lying unconscious.  
  
"You're right," Drannamon said. He stooped and lifted the girl in his arms. The others were standing around like they were in a daze, even Aendar. "Can you lead us back to the inn, Bunker?" "Right," the dwarf nodded. "I think it's this way."  
  
***  
  
A crowd had gathered outside the Wizard's Hand, so Lhullbannen did not at first realize his three missing daughters had returned. The dwarves had finally arrived in Maskyr's Eye, but not in the way anyone had expected. They came as refugees, not as merchants. The mountain heights were swarming with orcs, and wolves, and giants. Already, rumors were spreading that a black dragon prowled the dwarven halls.  
  
The human merchants flocked out into the square to see them, but when they realized that these dwarves came not to sell but were fleeing their homes, a riot nearly broke out.  
  
Lhullbannen stood on the steps of his inn, surveying the scene before him. His old friend, the guardsman Aarrisson, stood beside him, but Maefi remained inside, clutching little Jhesycha. Lhull had gone inside to get his great axe from his attic trunk, and now he brandished the thing menacingly overhead. "Silence!" He bellowed, trying to restore some sense of order. "Be quiet, everyone. Let us hear what the Stout Folk have to say." He glared a challenge at the knot of dwarves huddled together at the foot of the stairs.  
  
Finally, one of the dwarves took it upon himself to act as their spokesman. He came forward and bowed to the burly innkeeper, who he took to be the leader of the village.  
  
"I am Beniah Stonebeard," he said. His mastery of the Common Tongue was halting but fair. The dwarves of the mountains did not often mingle with other races. At his belt, Beniah wore a great horn, tipped with silver. The very horn which had announced their arrival- or their flight. He confirmed most of what had already come to Lhullbannen's ears- a horde of orcs had fallen upon the dwarves and driven them from their mines. "We left many kinsfolk behind," he said sadly, "and not all of them dead. But the orcs were in great numbers, and we could not win back across the field of foes to save our friends." He sighed, and unconsciously rubbed the axe-handle which hung from his belt. The blade was missing, and the haft was broken. Most of the dwarves there were still as stones. Some of them, probably women, though it was hard for Lhull to tell, sobbed quietly. "We fought our way here, gathering whoever we could find. Their archers and wolfriders hurt us badly, but we pressed on."  
  
"As dwarves always do," Lhullbannen said, a hint of sympathy in his voice. "Tell me, Beniah Stonebeard, are the orcs following you?" Every dwarf nodded.  
  
That news chilled the hearts of the gathered listeners. The dwarves' tale caused quite an uproar among the visiting merchants, who began to pack up their goods. The villagers for the most part remained calm. Stoic and resigned to their danger, the men and women of Maskyr's Eye would stand and fight. Though it had been many winters since the last orc horde had boiled over from the mountains, the lore of Maskyr's Eye was full of tales of valiant death and desperate defense.  
  
"Folk, hear me," Lhullbannen said. "Everyone of fighting age must arm themselves. Aarrisson is our appointed guardsman, so he is in charge." He began outlining a plan for the defense of the village.  
  
"Those few among us who are able to fight will aid you," said Beniah, "but many of us are very old, or very young. We are craftsmen mostly, or miners. We were able to bring little of armor or weaponry." He looked over at the human merchants, many of whom had brought their own guardsmen with them, for protection on the road. They were already packing their carts and preparing to flee. "Will you not aid us?"  
  
Most of the merchants simply averted their eyes, or glared mockingly at the fools who thought they could weather an orc horde. "This is your fight," one said, "not ours. We have already wasted precious time coming here. Now, we find that not only is there to be no Hornmoot, but we are expected to lay down our lives for a plot of horse dung? Returning empty-handed will be sore enough for us. The loss of income will be grievous. If we stay and fight, what is there in it for us? Only the prospect of more losses, not to mention the threat of mortal danger. No thank you." The others muttered their agreement, and hastened to be on their way. The dwarves made no response, but the men of Maskyr's Eye grumbled loudly at what, to them, sounded like cowardice.  
  
One merchant raised his voice above the din. "I came all the way here from Cormyr," he said. The other merchants, most of them Sembians, sneered at him. "In my country, too, we suffer from orc raids." He gestured at the villagers, dwarves, merchants and guardsmen. "Together, we have a sizeable force, enough to guard our flanks, if we moved quickly. We could assemble a caravan, and march out of here."  
  
More than one villager liked that idea. "Where would we go?" We have no king to protect us like you do in the Forest Kingdom."  
  
"Well," the Cormyrean stammered. "I dunno."  
  
The Sembians snickered, and even a few of his own mercenaries grinned at the naivete of their employer.  
  
Lhullbannen did not laugh. "I thank you for your offer, merchant of Cormyr. Your bravery does you credit. But we cannot abandon our homes." Some of the dwarves shifted uneasily, but said nothing. Most of the villagers nodded in agreement. "Will you stay with us and fight?"  
  
For a long moment, the merchant calculated his odds. A hundred guardsmen, some bedraggled dwarves and a score of villagers with pitch forks against an orc army. "Alas, I cannot." He looked at his feet. "But any folk who choose may travel with me, under my protection, such as it is." The other merchants had distanced themselves from the young Cormyrean, leaving only him and his six men-at-arms.  
  
Lhullbannen shook his head, saddened. He knew his folk stood little chance, even if every dwarf and every merchant and all their guardsmen and retainers stayed and fought on behalf of the vale. But Maskyr's Eye had weathered such assaults before. Won or lost, they'd always returned, and rebuilt, and persevered. The long cemetery behind the Temple of Chauntea was testament to that.  
  
He was a former adventurer. He knew he stood little chance if orcs came in numbers like the dwarves described. But he was the only one in the village with experience in war. He knew his death would bring further pain to poor Maefi- that was why she was huddled in their bedroom, instead of at his side. He regretted he would probably die while three of his four daughters were missing. He would lead this battle, and he would give his life to save the village that had been so good to him. He only wished Sshansalue, his former companion, was still there. She had given him warning, but he had not believed it. The villagers all looked up at him expectantly.  
  
"Will no one join us in this fight?"  
  
"We will!"  
  
Lhullbannen could not see who had spoken. The voice came from the back of the crowd, but the villagers parted. At the far end of the square was a group of about seven - six humans, and perhaps a dwarf. From his vantage point across the square, Lhull could not make out their faces, but he instantly recognized their type. Adventurers. Fortuneseekers. Troublemakers. They'd come into his inn, or those like them, enough times for him to know. He could spot them a league off. He'd once been like them.  
  
As they came closer, the crowd parted to let them through. Lhullbannen could see that most of them were wounded, barely able to walk. Typical. One of them was even carrying a smaller companion in his arms. No doubt they'd demand healing first, as well as food and lodging and money the villagers didn't have. Lhullbannen wondered how they had gotten those wounds. Had these adventurers been up in the Giantspikes, and perhaps run afoul of the orcs? He narrowed his eyes. Or were they instigators, perhaps meddling somewhere men should not go, and brought down the wrath of the mountain gods on his unsuspecting village?  
  
The villagers began to murmer, and Lhullbannen peered more closely at the approaching group. They didn't have the look of seasoned mercenaries, but any help, any willing sword, would be welcome. Then, he heard Aarrisson gasp beside him, and point. From above, he heard Maefi suddenly scream in her bedchamber, and they all heard the thump-thump-thump of his heavy wife running down the stairs. Lhullbannen was puzzled. She never moved that quickly unless-  
  
The adventurers halted, a dozen paces in front of Lhullbannen. His two eldest- Carine and Andryl- stepped forward. His heart leapt. They looked pale, and dirty, but they were alive. He was about to smile when the doors to his common room burst open and Maefi burst out, still clutching little Jhesycha in her meaty arms. "My lasses! They're home!" Maefi bounded past him and gathered Carine and Andryl in her arms. 


	10. Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

Nearly the entire village gathered in the common room of the Wizard's Eye to hear what the dwarves had to say. Aendar and Drannamon were there, along with the innkeeper's daughters and their other adventuring companions. The two strangers, the druid named Osprey and the one who called himself Harrow, also attended. They had identified themselves as Harpers, and though they wanted to continue their search for the missing Lady Mheren, the urgency of an orc invasion had convinced them to remain, at least until the next morning.

Lhullbannen turned to Carine, who stood nearby. "We're running out of ale. Run down to the cellars and bring up another cask."

The dark-haired girl stood there, silently. She clenched her fists.

The innkeeper looked puzzled. "What're you waiting for, lass? We've still got an inn to run."

"No, father," Carine said quietly. "Send one of the other servants. We want to hear this, too." Andryl and Shalea came up beside their sister, adding their support.

There was nothing Lhullbannen could do. He would have to deal with his incorrigible daughters later. It was time for the stout folk to speak. The air was thick with the smoke from the pipes of the dwarven emissaries. Their news was dire.

"An army boiled up out of the caves," their leader said, his Common thickly accented in the dwarven fashion. "We lived only in the upper levels, and rarely visit the older tunnels in the depths any more. The orcs came out of the old ruins, and caught us by surprise. We're used to dealing with the occasional raid from below, but this was different. Such numbers we haven't seen in two hundred winters or more. Something has really stirred them up."

"Well, what can we do, Master Dwarf?" Lhullbannen asked. "We have no militia, and no money to hire sellswords. There is really nothing we can do to help you regain your homes."

The old dwarf nodded, his beard waggling. "Long ago, the folk of this village were allied with our forefathers. The archmage Maskyr aided us then, and through the years, our two folk have lived in peace, though the old wizard is long gone. We know your numbers have dwindled since, as have ours. We have given up hope of regaining our halls, or rescuing those of our folk who remained behind. The orcs are simply too strong."

"Then, why have you requested this council?"

The dwarf thought a moment before speaking again, and when he did, he sounded a little sad. "To warn ye. Take heed of your defenses. If the orcs come here, you, too, will be overrun."

There was a murmuring throughout the room. Lhullbannen silenced it with his hand. "We have sent riders to Mulmaster. That city has aided us in the past, and will do so again, though the price is always high. And the caravan that left this morning bound for Calaunt will take word to the Merchant Dukes there that our village is in danger. Surely, they will take some action as well. We simply have to hold out long enough for help to arrive. How long do you think it will be before the orcs get here?"

The dwarves whispered among themselves before their spokesman answered. "We don't know for sure that they will. They may be content to simply occupy our halls. But that is not the way of orcs, and it is my guess that in a tenday or two, their outriders will appear, with a larger army soon to follow."

"Those Who Harp have helped our village in the past," Lhullbannen said, turning to the two Harper visitors. "Is there anything your folk can do?"

Harrow stayed in his chair, tapping the end of his dagger against the tabletop. Osprey stood and spread his hands. "There is little we can do," the half-elf said. "Harrow and I could lend you our swords, but the orcs are mustering in large numbers. Against such an army, even our help would not be enough."

He leaned forward, both hands on the scarred table. "There is little that we can do to help you. The Harpers are not a military force."

Harrow, the other Harper who until now had sat silently in the shadows, spoke. His melodic elven voice was grim and menacing. "A tenday sounds about right. The orcs will come here, there is no doubt. I've killed enough of the things in my time to know their ways. If some leader has arisen to unite the clans, then he has some scheme in mind. Even if his plan is simply to build an empire in the old dwarf ruins, he will not long stay in the mountains. Orcs need war to keep them united, lest they turn to squabbling amongst themselves. There is no other place for them to go save through this village."

"The orcs will come to Maskyr's Eye," Osprey agreed. "We will carry word of your plight far and wide, but your best hope will be to look for yourselves."

The dwarves nodded in resigned agreement. They had already decided for themselves that they were on their own.

"We are not warriors," one of the villagers exclaimed.

"And there aren't enough of us to hold off an army," said another. "We should all pack up and flee."

"I'm not leaving my farm," said an old patrician from the back. The common room quickly erupted into chaos.

Lhullbannen banged on a table with his fist until he managed to calm everyone down. "Help will come," he said, though he sounded far from reassuring. He went over to the hearth and took down his big axe from where it hung. "The people of Maskyr's Eye have survived orc raids in the past. We've survived flights of dragons, hordes of zombies, angry giants and worse." He looked at the axe in his hands. He hadn't wielded it in many years, and it felt good in his hands. The sight of her husband taking up his old weapon made Maefi nauseous, and the goodwife swayed on her feet, but the innkeeper's daughters felt a swell of pride at the sight of their father.

"We stand with you, father," Andryl said, unexpectedly.

Lhullbannen looked at her in amazement. He had not expected his daughters to fight. But the old warrior frowned. "Now, see here-"

Before he could forbid them, and send them off to hide in the cellar with their mother and baby sister, Carine and Shalea jumped to stand beside Andryl. "We are with you, too," they said.

There were a lot of approving smiles, then, in the common room of the Wizard's Eye. Lhullbannen didn't look like he enjoyed the turn of events. But, for the moment, there was nothing he could do. He sighed. His daughters had, foolishly, gone into the dungeons under Maskyr's tower. They had not come out unscathed, but they had, at least, come out alive. Not unlike Lhullbannen's own first foray into adventuring, many years ago.

In all the years since his retirement, he had striven to make the Wizard's Eye a place where his daughters could live safe, sensible, respectable lives. Despite all he tried to teach them, despite all the warnings and wisdom he had tried to impart to them, still his three eldest daughters insisted on becoming adventurers, of following in his footsteps. It was not the life he would have chosen for Carine, Andryl and Shalea. But it was the life he had chosen for himself, once. He didn't wholly regret his choice.

Lhullbannen looked at his daughters. They wore the gear of adventurers- swords and bows, belt pouches and scuffed boots. Packs filled with torches and flasks of oil and iron spikes and large sacks. Their eyes sparkled with youthful exuberance. The heady lure of adventure and danger was on their faces. The old fighter knew that look. Nothing he could say would change it.

He looked at the two men, the travelers Aendar and Drannamon, who stood beside his daughters. They were young, too, but they had the look of the road about them. They looked strong, like they knew how to swing a sword. Lhullbannen barely knew the two men, but they had gone into the dungeons with his daughters, and brought the three girls out alive. That said something about them.

The innkeeper saw his stable-dwarf, Bunker, standing behind his daughters. The old dwarf surprised him. Lhullbannen had never taken Bunker for an adventurer. At least he could count on Bunker to look after his daughters, wherever their paths lead.

"Very well, then," he said.

The three girls ran to embrace their father, and the common room erupted in cheers. Maefi, standing to one side with little Jhenta clutching her skirts, fainted.

"There is one thing you might try," Osprey said.

Carine and her sisters turned to look at the Harper. Aendar and Drannamon stepped forward expectantly.

"Have any of you heard of the Pool of Swords?" Osprey asked. Lhullbannen paled.

The adventurers looked at one another and shrugged, but Shalea raised her hand. "I have. I read about it in Father's book."

Lhullbannen's face turned red. "The one I kept locked in the attic and hidden in a trunk with a false bottom?"

Shalea nodded.

"The one I told you never to read?"

"That one, yes," Shalea mumbled.

Osprey grinned at the look on the innkeeper's face. "So, you have heard of it, then."

"I have not," Aendar said, looking about him. "What is the Pool of Swords?"

"Well, it's little more than a legend, but I think it may truly exist. An enchanted pool, hidden in a ruined temple a few days ride south of here. The legend dates back to the time of Maskyr, and some say that the wizard hid there some magic weapons of great power, for just such an emergency."

"A few days ride," Aendar said, rubbing his chin. "We could go there, find whatever weapons might be of use to us, and be back within a tenday."

"Who could go there?" Lhullbannen asked, staring Aendar in the eye.

"Drannamon and I," the paladin answered.

"And us, too," Shalea said, stepping forward along with her sisters.

The innkeeper nodded. "Just as I thought. And will you be going, too, Bunker?"

"Yessir," the dwarf said, twirling his axe.

"Well then, no sense in wasting time," Lhullbannen said. "Shalea, since you know all my secrets now, take your sisters upstairs. In my trunk you'll find a map. You'll need that. It's about all I have left to give you."

"Thank you, father," Shalea said. Giving the innkeeper a quick hug, she dashed up the wooden stairs, her two sisters in her wake.

Lhullbannen turned to face Aendar and Drannamon. "You two," he said, eyeing them up and down. "We need to have a few words. Outside." He turned on his heel and went out the back door.

Aendar looked at Drannamon, who only shrugged. They followed the innkeeper outside.

The villagers slowly filed out of the room, some of them helping Maefi and her youngest child. Bunker was left, alone with the dwarves from the mountains.

"I am sorry for the loss of the Halls," he said in Dwarven. "Moradin will see that we win them back."

The leader of the mountain dwarf delegation nodded, and replied in the same language. "I am sure of that, Bunker." There was a mischievous twinkle in his eye when he said the name.

"Will you seek out our folk living by the coast?"

The older dwarf nodded. "They will help us. The Realm of Glimmering Swords is gone, but we cannot have orcs roaming our halls. For long."

"Our merchants wield considerable influence in the human cities," Bunker agreed. "Without too much trouble, I think our folk should be able to raise the gold needed to raise an army and retake our sacred caverns. The dwarves will give all they can to this cause."

"It will take some time," the dwarven emissary said. "But the mountains are always patient. The ore will still be there when we recapture our homeland. We have overcome worse than this in our long history."

"You leave on the morrow?"

"Yes. We are have womenfolk and young ones with us, so we will not travel as quickly as I would like, but in time we will come to Calaunt."

"Good." Bunker put a hand on the other dwarf's shoulder. "Win back our city."

"I shall do my best, my lord."

With that, the two dwarves parted ways, bowing deeply at the waist. The dwarves from the mountains filed out the front, going out to prepare for their long journey westward. Bunker took one last look around the common room that had been his home for many years. Then, he went out the back door, to find Aendar and Drannamon. Hopefully, old Lhullbannen wasn't being too hard on them. Bunker liked the two fellows, after all.

The fire sputtered in the hearth. The elf Harrow still sat quietly in the shadows. Osprey had left, but he had remained, unnoticed. That was something Harrow was good at. He watched the dwarves leave. He didn't think they knew he'd overheard. Not many elves spoke the dwarven language. "My lord?" Harrow asked aloud, eyeing the doorway where Bunker had just gone. "How interesting."

* * *

In the only other large building in Maskyr's Eye, the nearby temple of Chauntea, Jhenta sat alone with the Mother Superior. 

"You seem nervous, my dear," the High Priestess said. Sit down, and tell me what is troubling you."

Jhenta looked around the tiny chapel, eyes darting around nervously. She was alone with a woman who knew her mannerisms intimately, but Jhenta could find no reasonable excuse to leave. She reluctantly allowed herself to be guided into a chair. "Thank you, Mother Superior."

The High Priestess, laughed. "So formal, Jhenta! You haven't called me that since you first came to us! Now I know that something is wrong." She picked up a simple brush from a nearby stand.

"Yes, Mother, er, I mean, yes," Jhenta replied.

"I imagine that your recent escapades must have taken quite a toll on you." The High Priestess began smoothing Jhenta's hair. She brushed out the tangles, as she did so she pulled back the hair, revealing slightly pointed ears that bespoke Jhenta's half-elven heritage. "Not many have dared the dungeons beneath Maskyr's tower. That was quite a feat you helped pull off, you know."

"We all almost died," Jhenta said.

"Yes, that's true. But you didn't . Well, except for that boy Pinter. A shame, really, about him. But he's not a villager. We didn't really know much about him. But the innkeeper's daughters- now, that's another story entirely."

Jhenta leaned back, interested.

"Old Lhullbannen has spoken to me in the past, you know. I know what is in his heart. He was an adventurer once, himself, you know. That's why he is always so hard on his girls. He doesn't want them to go through what he went though. I told him there was no point to it- those girl's have his same spirit. Well, the older three, anyway. We'll see what becomes of Jhesycha. I know you have been friends with the oldest. What's her name? Carine, that's it."

Jhenta was not sure what to say. "I'm sorry," she stammered. "I won't do it again."

The High Priestess laughed again. "No, no, Jhenta, that's not what I was saying. I don't object, not in the least. True, it's dangerous, going on adventures and delving into old dungeons. That's why so few priests do it. Only the craziest or the most fanatical of us take that style. But I think there's a value to it, if you can handle the hardships such a life brings. No one needs spiritual guidance more than a bunch of foolhardy young adventurers, and no one needs our services more than they do. It is a field that is ripe for harvesting, if you know how to sow it properly."

"So, you think I was right to go down there with them? Even though an innocent man died?"

"As much as it pains me to say it, Jhenta, yes, I think it was the right thing to do."

Jhenta raised an eyebrow. "So, if I was to go off with them again, you would not oppose it?"

The High Priestess nodded. "If that is where you think your calling lies, then I would not oppose it. I think you would lend them some much needed wisdom. And I think that it would be good for you, too."

Jhenta remained silent, nervously fingering the gold medallion around her neck.

"I've not seen you wear that before, Daughter."

Jhenta froze. The gold medallion bore not the sheaf of Chauntea, but the symbol of a dragon coiled about a wand. "Uhm, I'm sorry. I lost my holy symbol in the dungeons." She tucked the amulet inside her bodice.

"I'm sure we can find you a new one somewhere around here," the High Priestess said.


	11. Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

_Author's Note: I'm going to take a few liberties here, and change a bit about Jhenta's character. Suffice it to say that Neske, the evil illusionist, has somehow disappeared from the picture, and the priestess Jhenta is her good-old half-elven self again, none the worse for wear. I think some re-writing is in order, but not now. My apologies._

The seven companions set out not long after, thundering south along the old caravan route. Each one rode a new horse, one of the sturdy blackhairs for which Maskyr's Eye was justifiably known. Blackhairs were large, sturdy and intelligent animals, not skittish or often spooked, yet easily trainable. They were known more for their endurance and sure-footedness than their speed, being bred by Maskyrvians for centuries to serve the caravans which once traveled the rocky foothills along the western slopes of the mountains.

Dark stormclouds appeared above the top of the Sleeper in Sunrise, and by late morning the skies had turned grey. The adventurers pulled tight their cloaks to ward off the drizzle. They made their way south with as much haste as the bad weather and poor roads would allow.

The map Lhullbannen gave them proved useful, and they planned to make camp at a spot marked only as "old castle." They tethered their horses under a stand of trees, and cautiously made their way towards the ruins. It was the crumbling shell of an old keep, obviously destroyed long ago, but whether by the vagaries of the gods or at the hands of some marauding army, none of them could tell.

The curtain walls were almost completely gone, and of the outbuildings that once stood there, nothing remained. They could make out the ruins of a once great tower- a round circle of stones completely overgrown with vines and moss.

"What do you make of it?" Aendar asked.

"It's old," Bunker said, cautiously poking through the ruins. "Most of the stones are gone, probably carried off by villagers over the years, to make their walls and buildings."

"That's how much of Maskyr's Eye was built," Shalea said.

"Definitely not dwarven. The stonework has elements of both human and elven craftsmanship. My guess is, this was once a wizard's tower."

"Not another one of those," Andryl groaned.

"We've GOT to see what lies within," Carine said.

Andryl rolled her eyes. "Didn't you learn your lesson the last time?"

Carine shot her sister a sharp look. "There's got to be a stairway here somewhere, leading down."

"Here it is," Bunker said. He looked to Aendar. When the paladin nodded, so did Bunker. "Let's see what we can find."

The staircase they'd found descended about twenty feet and stopped at a door. It was made of wood, reinforced with iron. "Let's check it out," Bunker said, not wanting to touch the handle.

Carine, with her typical smug look, cast a simple spell. "No magic."

Bunker nodded and tried the door. "Locked."

Shalea stepped forward, pulling out her lockpicks. "Somebody light a torch so I can see." No sooner was that done than the door clicked, and Shalea stepped aside. "Done."

Bunker adjusted his helm and once again put his hand on the door handle. This time, it swung easily, opening inward. The seven adventurers went in.

They found themselves in a large, circular room, about forty feet in diameter. The ceiling was high, but not vaulted. There were other doors- one on the right, one on the left, and opposite was a pair of double doors, made out of what looked like silver. In front of the double doors, just over halfway across the room, sat what looked like a trunk, with a round, grey object on top of it.

As their eyes adjusted to the torchlight, the explorers began to notice the room was actually quite elaborate, beneath the ages of dust and layers of cobwebs. The floor was actually a finely crafted mosaic, depicting an idyllic life in some noble court, complete with minstrels and handsome knights arrayed for glorious battle, and their ladies fair looking on. The ceiling was a midnight blue dome, with tiny silver stars representing the summer night sky. The walls were painted frescoes, and although they were faded with time, the peaceful representation of domestic life and courtly love could still be seen.

Shalea looked up at the impressive ceiling. "It must have been beautiful, once."

"It reminds me of Highmoon," Jhenta said, a little wistfully.

"You've been there?"

Jhenta only nodded.

"Let's watch our steps," Bunker reminded them.

Cautiously, Aendar and Drannamon moved towards the chest, weapons ready.

"What's that thing on top of it?" Bunker asked.

"Looks like an old skull," Aendar said.

"Human?"

The paladin nodded. "I think we should go ahead and open it."

"Let me inspect it first," Shalea said, again coming forward with her thieves tools.

"Something's not right," Drannamon growled, his eyes scanning the room.

"I see no magic," Carine said.

"And I sense no evil," Aendar said.

"See?" Shalea grinned. "Ya big-" But as soon as she set her lockpick into the keyhole, the dark-haired little thief frowned. "What the?"

The chest suddenly jumped of its own accord. Not only that, it shifted shape. A massive pseudopod extruded from the top of the trunk, knocking aside the skull that had been sitting on top of it. The mimic swung its fist at Shalea, pounding her in the stomach and sending the hapless thief sprawling across the floor.

"That's no chest!" Aendar shouted. He raised his shield and hacked at the thing with his sword.

"What is it?" Drannamon asked, bringing his great axe down on the thing. The cold iron blade of the north struck true, but instead of crushing the chest to splinters, it caused a wound. "It's made of flesh!"

"And it bleeds," Aendar added.

"A mimic," Bunker said, advancing cautiously. "A strange creature that can disguise itself as almost anything, meant to prey on the unwary."

"Well, I'm aware of it now," Drannamon snarled, taking another chunk out of the creature with his axe.

The mimic wasn't about to stand still and be slaughtered, though. It quickly morphed four stubby legs and skittered to one side, landing a blow on Aendar's shield as it did so, keeping the paladin at bay.

"It wants to fight," Drannamon said.

The mimic shifted again, this time growing two more thick tentacles it used to hold off Aendar and Bunker.

Carine stood back, ready to help or cast a spell if necessary. Andryl drew her sword and led Jhenta over to where Shalea lay. The thief was just beginning to get up.

"Are you all right?" Andryl asked.

"Yeah, that thing just caught me off guard." Shalea's eyes widened as she saw something else, moving in the shadows behind Andryl and Jhenta. "Look out!"

The priestess and the warrior spun to face the new enemy that had suddenly appeared. It crawled out of a large crack in one of the walls near the floor. It was another strange creature neither of them had ever seen before- perhaps even stranger than the mimic. It was bigger than a dog, and covered with hard, bony scales. It scampered about on a half-dozen impossibly-small legs. It had two roving eyestalks, and a pair of ferocious-looking mandibles. And the creature had a segmented tail, something like a scorpions, except it ended in a blunt knob of bone rather than a poisonous stinger.

"Look out!" Andryl warned, shoving both Jhenta and Shalea out of the thing's path. She brought her sword down with two hands across its back, but the blade barely nicked the bony scales. A tentacle shot out of the thing's mouth and wrapped itself around Andryl's sword. Instantly, the entire blade cracked into rust.

"My sword!" Andryl cried, tossing aside her ruined weapon. She backed away.

Without thinking, Jhenta pulled a mace from her belt, and attacked the rust monster. She hit the thing squarely atop the skull, cracking bone. The creature staggered for a moment, obviously hurt, but then it lashed out again with its tentacle, grabbing onto Jhenta's mace. In seconds, the fine steel weapon had been turned completely into rust.

"What's wrong?" Aendar shouted from across the room.

"This monster," Andryl said. "It turns metal into rust. How are we supposed to kill it?"

"With magic, you idiot," Carine said, casting a spell. A volley of four magical missiles lit up the room briefly in a blue light as they streaked from her hands to strike the rust monster from across the room.

"Or with arrows," Drannamon added, a little more helpfully.

"That makes a little more sense," Andryl said.

But the rust monster was hungry, and it looked to make a meal out of Andryl's armor. The creature advanced on the warrior, and before she could dodge, it had grabbed onto her breastplate.

Andryl tried not to panic. She physically grabbed hold of the disgusting creature and flung it away from her, but not before it had managed to dissolve a huge patch in her steel breastplate. Most of her armor fell useless to the ground in a rusty heap. "Jhenta, hold the thing off with your staff while I ready my bow. I don't think it can harm wood weapons."

The plan worked like a charm, and with arrows, throwing knives and darts, it wasn't long before the rust monster breathed its last. The mimic, too, found its existence drawn to a close under Aendar's sword and the axes of Drannamon and Bunker.


End file.
